


Kingdoms of Ruin: The Age of Darkness II

by Xaire



Series: The Age of Darkness Saga [2]
Category: Cthulhu Mythos - Fandom, Cthulhu Mythos - H. P. Lovecraft, Original Work
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-11
Updated: 2020-01-10
Packaged: 2020-01-11 07:37:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 65,547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18425997
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xaire/pseuds/Xaire
Summary: “Feeling reality’s dry and chilling breeze brush her like a malevolently welcoming touch, she turned her back on the god’s glorious little town and started down the mountain side, slowly and steadily. The mournful tapping of aeon old stones beneath her heels heralded the beginning of her blind journey through these kingdoms of ruin.”





	1. The Girl from Ulthar

She was scared. Confused and Hyperventilating. And the unrelenting hammering on the outside of her bedroom door didn’t help. Every ten seconds therapping would echo through her tiny cell-like room and would become briefly audible over the Ultharian girl’s uncontrollable sobbing. She needed it to stop, she tried to mentally drown it out and regain her bearings, but the anxious voice that accompanied the knocking pierced her would-be calm like a hot knife and aroused the already overbearing storm of confusion that roared and thrashed in her mind, threatening to drag her down ever deeper into despondency and madness. She considering jumping out the window, maybe running out of city limits and out into the Skai Plain where she could find some peace, but she knew that wouldn’t work. She could put as many kilometers between herself and the ones assaulting her door, but she would never be able to run away from the heart wrenching images in her head.

 

“GO AWAY!” Clair cried in a desperate plea, although in her own ears, her voice sounded no more comprehensible than the choked babble it actually was. Her throat was sore, and became more so with each forced breath that rasped from within. Over and over gain, she uttered under dwindling breath, hopelessly trying to believe it was wasn’t real:

 

_I killed Daddy._

_I killed Daddy._

_I killed Daddy._

 

And each time the fucking voices outside would respond “Clair, honey, Daddy’s not dead! I’m okay! Just let me in and I can show you! Please, all I want to do is help you!”

 

“Leave me alone!” She squealed. She couldn’t think straight. Nothing seemed real. How could Dad be outside when Clair had just tore him to pieces? Who is this imposter, this wraith rapping at her door? She curled up in her bed, clutching the sheets in her fists and burying her tear streaked face in them. The down and fabric felt like blood between her fingers.

 

Though her eyes were squeezed shut and throbbing with pain, she could see. Whatever it was she was seeing, it stormed into her mind like an army of demons and lingered there, somehow taunting and warping all the real things she saw with her real eyes. At first, it happened so suddenly, so unexpectedly that it simply frightened her into a screaming fit. She ran into her room, crying, as twisted vistas of another world—growing more real by the second—blanketed her inner sight, disorienting not only all five of her senses, but also her perception on what was real and what wasn’t.

 

In that short instant, young Clair believed with all her heart that she really was standing amid a vast chamber, decked out in stained glass windows, billowing vermilion drapes, an intricate mosaic across the floor, and an arched ceiling from which dangled darkened light fixtures. The only light there was to speak of were the silver beams of moonlight coming in through the massive balcony door, stretching the shadows of furniture and mechanical devices across the room. The shadows and the highlights here created the impression of a place that was somehow holy, like a chapel, yet also foreboding. She saw herself in a nearby mirror, taking only a sidelong glance at the reflection before turning to stare down a cowering man that pathetically crawled across the floor away from her. She looked like a princess, with her elaborate outfit, tiara, and flowing black hair. With one foot still in the real world, she inwardly denied that, suspecting she was only a bumpkin farm girl. But the regal child was undoubtedly herself. So she knew when she saw the bright emerald eyes and grim oriental features.

 

What happened next, she couldn’t describe without straining her tender imagination. All she could tell for certain was she giggled—cackled like some kind of bloodthirsty bird right out of the annals of Leng—and killed the terrified man, ripping him to shreds by unspeakable means. Before he died, the man was strange, clad in an outfit no less alien than her own and wearing a face that was as unrecognizable as it was haggard. But Clair felt a connection to this person, felt that the man was a guardian, a guide, an idol. A father. There was no logic to this feeling, but regardless it became as real the air she breathed. And as the blood puddle of blood and scattered limbs on the marble floor.

 

_I killed Daddy._

_I killed Daddy._

_I killed Daddy._

 

After reality started bleeding back into her senses, drop by drop, the bloody slaughter played in her head again and again, fluidly flowing from start to finish and then back to start like a damning cycle. All the while, fleeting and ragged patches of her room spotted the scene. Her hand-carved dresser and mirror, the plush of her mattress, all like ghosts visible only in her peripherals.

 

“Clair, calm down. Open the door, sweetie. We just want to help.” Clair’s mother joined in her husband’s harassing.

 

“NO!”

 

Something started tugging at her dress, and patting and her feet. She looked away from the butchered form of the mystery man lying scattered in bloody tatters towards the little nuisance pricking her legs with tiny claws.

 

It purred. It mewled mournfully. Through the haze Clair could see the sleek and fuzzy form of Willow creeping across across the bed, padding softly and cautiously. In tone, his scratchy voice was like the pressing pleas of the two adults at the door. The animal was expressing concern. Her best friend and lifelong partner was expressing fear.

 

“Willow…go away.” Clair begged, but the cat didn’t listen. It stalked closer.

 

“Clair, please open the door!” Her parents repeated.

 

“Willow, please…”

 

“Clair!”

 

The cat meowed, her parents hammered, the body in front of her festered and reeked in rapid decay.

 

“STOP!”

 

Everything continued to melt and shift andflash in rapid succession, going from reality to vision so fast she couldn’t tell one from the other anymore. She needed it to stop. If only her parents and Willow could just leave her alone for a moment, maybe she could regain her sanity, but they relentlessly assaulted door and yelled at her, while the cat rubbed his hairy flanks against Clair’s body, making more noise. She held the sheets tighter, quietly begging the gods to end this suffering.

 

Willow was now in Clair’s face, sadly staring at his human friend. Clair stared back, hoping to maybe use the image as an anchor to hold her down to the real world, but something truly frightening happened, something that finally sent her over the edge.

 

For a few long seconds, Willow was no longer a cat in the girl’s eyes. In her delirious state, she saw the cat morph into something she couldn’t even begin to describe without feeling bile pool in the back of her throat. Willow became a thing that—for lack of a better comparison—resembled some sort of deformed mantis, apparently held together with black slime and metal wires. And the eyes—if that’s what they were supposed to be—stared vacantly and drilled into her with his vapidity, yet the thing-that-was-Willow’s maw was fixated into a sick grin, like he was laughing at her.

 

What startled her so was not that she was scared of the Willow creature, but that she still recognized and accepted it as Willow her longtime friend. Almost as if this was the form the car had worn since birth. That toppled her sense of logic, and she found that all she could do was blindly fight back, regardless of what was real and what wasn’t.

 

“NO! NO! LEAVE ME ALONE! GO AWAY!” She shrieked and scrambled, batting the cat-mantis thing with a sweep of her arm. Her breathing quickened, palpitating with such vigor that her chest began to ache and her head began to swim.

 

“Clair?!” The voices behind the door exclaimed in dismay. “Oh Bast! Something’s wrong, she’s stopped breathing!” They began ramming themselves against the door, causing the wood to heave and splinter.

 

Meanwhile, Willow was recollecting himself, raising his segmented dirty-white body on all eight of it’s black legs. He pleadingly mewed—or chirped, of croaked, or whatever the hell the thing was doing—and began creeping towards her again, inky spittle dripping from it’s maw and staining the floral-printed bedsheets.

 

“Get away for me, Willow!” She cried, backing away until her trembling frame hit the headboard. “Just leave me alone! All of you, leave me alone!” Despite her begging, the creature advanced.

 

She could barely see the hazy thing that was supposed to be the nightstand, squatting just a few inches away, but the one object thereon was as clear as a star: A letter opener. A sleek little object so mundane, yet that sharpened point that gleamed in the morning sunlight held the promise of salvation. A weapon. One she felt the sudden and intense urge to use to strike down the things arousing her confusion. Kill Willow. She thought, and at first hesitantly. I must kill Willow. Just like I killed Daddy.

 

As she seized the object in her tiny fist, everything seemed to become so clear. All she wanted was peace, but the paradox of father being both a bloody mess at her feet and a concerned figure attempting to break into her room refused to let such peace exist. And here was Willow—her supposed friend—daring to hiss and gurgle at her with that hideous face of his. Willow must die. Just like Daddy. To find peace, that all must die. All must end.

 

And yet the blade was already on it’s course before the thoughts even fully formed. Hatred and anger thrashing its way out with every heated heartbeat, she brough the pseudo-weapon down upon Willow with more than enough force to break the skin and bore through his flesh.

 

In agony, Willow howled, and the piercing cry shocked the child of Ulthar into her right mind. The illusion rapidly crumbled and Clair found herself in a single world, curled upon a bloodstained bed in a tiny cottage in a cozy village, with no corpses or oversized chambers. And likewise, the vision of a crooked techno-organic monster fell apart and all Clair saw was Willow, standing shivering and bloody as he stared at the girl with fear stricken eyes. His mouth hung agape, a painful croak rolling over his tongue. From his left shoulder protruded the weapon, which turned out to be nothing but a simple pen. It stuck out of his flesh like a thorn, the fur around the wound collecting blood and ink. The crimson fluid flowed down the cat’s leg and pooled on the bed. Even as Clair’s parents continued to beat on the door, creating a threatening and repetitive crash with each knock, Willow stood his ground, apparently concerned solely with the assault and the assailant.

 

“Will…oh, gods…oh, gods no! No!” Clair gasped and panicked, running her blood covered fingers through her hair, clutching her locks in white knuckled fists. Her heart sank straight to Hell and her face burned with tears. “I’m sorry. I’m…I…Willow…I…don’t know how…” She tried reaching for the beloved cat to bring him in for an embrace, but the feline jumped back on its three remaining legs and hissed. He swept a paw at the girl’s hand, claws digging grooves in her fingers. But the slashes did not hurt near as much as the terrified, hurt look Willow rewarded Clair right before he darted off the bed and ran behind the dresser, where he stayed for the rest of the day.

 

She broke down, cradling her injured hand not because it was in pain but because the puny wound was far less than what she believed she deserved. “Willow…I’m sorry…I’m…” She sobbed, finding it nearly impossible to speak while her nubby fingers rubbed back and forth over the scratches, spreading blood. “I’m sorry…please for…forgive me…forgive me. Forgive me, please.” Self loathing weighed on her as she stared at the trail of crimson splotches across her sheets and carpet.

 

The door erupted open with a loud thud, and in rushed her parents, old Stoua and Dalia. The plump and rosy cheeked mother, weeping hysterically, ran across the room and seized the young girl in her warm embrace while the lanky and clean shaven father took note of the blood covering the floor, the bed, and the weeping child in question.

 

“Good Nodens, Stoua, there’s blood! She needs a doctor now!” Dalia cried while her husband lowered himself onto the bed next to them both and stole Clair into his own arms. As he hugged her he told her in a gentle voice “See? Daddy’s okay, sweetie. I’m okay. I’m not going to hurt you and I know you would never hurt me.” Her old man said more, but Clair ended up tuning it out as she stared at her upraised hand over the man’s broad shoulder, her eye following the trails of crimson on her palm, thinking that they looked like the trails to Hell on the map of her pale skin. Over and over again, she internally told her self that those markings will never leave, believing them to be permanent reminders of her mistakes.

 

“Daddy?” She squeaked, sobbing, and briefly feeling relief that she could address her father as a living person. The feeling quickly died when she asked “What’s wrong with me?”

 

… … …

 

The dream ended and Clair jolted awake, her head rocketing up and instantly slamming against the stone slab suspended a short twenty centimeters over her face. In mindless shock, her body spasmed and her limbs scraped against similar surfaces. It was dark and she was still half-asleep, lethargically drawing in lungfuls of damp air before exhaling bursts of blood-heated breath that, ironically, seemed more suffocating than nourishing in this tightly closed space. Her first full thought was that she was in a coffin, and she almost screamed. The next second, however, she remembered that her “room” was little more than a conveniently shaped crevice stowed away within a shadowed corner of a yawning canyon, where she willingly fell asleep hours earlier. Clair felt both relieved and incredibly stupid.

 

As her eyes adjusted, she detected the faint haze of dimly violet light that was not much brighter than moonlight. On the contrary, it was sunlight, or at least the mid-morning celestial illumination that was supposed to pass as sunlight nowadays. She shifted her head to the left and saw the gnarled crack in the darkness from which spilled the brilliance. Beyond that was the dusty, ash-colored opposite wall of the canyon and a few arthropod-like “plants” that clung to the rocks like hairy ticks.

 

She patted around in the dark, looking for the Astylvere. Her fingers brushed frigid metal, almost being clipped by the razored edge. As she always does when she lets go of the precious rifle for any amount of time, she breathed a sigh of relief as she firmly secured it in her fingers and thanked whatever god was listening that the many formed night stalkers hadn’t mad off with the gun (or her life, not to mention).

 

She wiggled around awkwardly, passing the gun between her beasts and the ceiling so she could aim it towards the outside. With one steady finger hovering just above the trigger, she slowly crawled out, stopping every few seconds to listen for any predators that may be waiting outside. In the months since her abandonment (or her “homecoming”, as she liked to call it during the rare few moments when she was feeling optimistic) on this god forsaken planet, she learned that basically every living thing would ruthlessly slaughter her if given the chance. Some, like the more terrestrial type creatures, seemed more concerned with fulfilling their role in the circle of life by consuming the former-Ultharian woman. Others, like the overly abundant trans-dimensional flying tentacled whatever-the-fuck-they’re-supposed-be’s, apparently hunted and killed solely for the pleasure of it. Once, she witnessed one of these nameless things tear a frightened impish creature to fleshy shreds, only expressing concern with the spine after he had completely liberated it from the torso. After childishly toying with the sinuous string of vertebrae for half an hour (yes, Clair dared to stay and watch this horror show for that long) the flying monster soared off, dropping and forgetting it’s trophy. Not once did this beast even so much lick the dead meat of the imp. However, Clair decided to make good use of the mutilated being. It wasn’t delicious by any means, but it was filling.

 

When she reached the lip of the crack, Clair surveyed what little she could see and detected no signs of predators. All was quiet and stagnant, but with creatures that could remain completely invisible to the eye until it was too late, quiet and stagnant never seemed like very promising thing. Flexing her whole body in one quick movement, she rolled out into the open and ended up on her feet as the barrel of Astylvere rose and swiveled in one smooth arch. Clair didn’t dare fire it until she was sure she was in any immediate danger. Astylvere was both very loud and very bright when used, so even if one of the bottomless cache of rounds were used, it would surely alert anything within a kilometer’s radius. Fortunately, she seemed almost completely alone in the canyon. There were no patches of wavering air or five prong footprints to indicate that unseen lurkers have ever been abound. The only living things there were herself, the bug-plants (and most of them had fled to their own dimension when she erupted out of her crevice), and a solitary creature which she was already aware of, even before falling asleep: a fuzzy little crab with a score of gently palpitating tendrils, a mouth shaped like a vagina, and a triad of eyes that might have been gleaming with deep interest in the human, had she believed that it was even capable of feeling such a thing. She had seen hundreds of them since her homecoming and not one of them had ever endeavored to attack her, so she assumed that they were basically the squirrels of the new Earth. Copious and totally harmless. She ended up naming them To-Chues without really knowing why.

 

“Scram!” Clair yelled at the black fur ball. As commanded, the To-Chue leapt up in a somewhat comical way and shape-shifted into a serpentine form before rapidly slithering into the same crack Clair slept in.

 

As an added precaution, she skimmed the area again, reassuring herself that she was alone. Once at ease, she tilted her head up and gazed at the abstract scenethat took the stead of a sky. Moons like tarnished marbles, stars like the inflamed eyes of deranged gods, and colors of every conceivable hue were sprawled all across the heavens in a bright yet ghostly amalgam of spheres and other less common celestial shapes. The closest star—a pulsing purple orb that Nyarlathotep had identified as Earth’s true sun—was beginning to rise, one blazing edge peeking over the lip of the canyon, throwing shadows over the debris littered floor. It was morning, meaning that the monotonously colored landscape was still its usual ashy pallor, but as the stars align over the upcoming hours into a certain pattern that signifies the time of day that could be vaguely considered noon, the “sunlight” will cast an intricate miasma of colors over the Earth’s surface, making the atmosphere appear the color an an opal stone, forcing the dust to sparkle like a sea of glass shards, and allowing the thousands of native crystalline fungus-trees to bloom in ways almost beyond description. For certain, daytime on planet Earth wasn’t a bad time to be alive, but between keeping herself fed and keeping herself from being fed to Flying Polyps Clair hardly had time to appreciate such things. The crystal trees, however, used to be good for providing food in the form of bulbous, black, putrid looking fruit that was actually quite tasty. Not long after her rebirth—or her transition from an ignorant life in the Dreamlands to her lonely existence wandering the Earth—and her departure from Sy-or Antarktos, she had entered a biome full of the glass-like flora; a whole forest comprised of the spectral trees stretching in every direction for kilometers, carpeting hills and mountains sides. Where there should have been varying shades of green there was instead an otherworldly spectrum of color splattered all over the land. Each tree, of course, had copious amounts of fruit and needless to say, Clair indulged. But eventually she had to leave that orchard behind as she was forced to continue her journey. Using her undershirt as a makeshift bag, she harvested several dozen of the fruits and carried them with her. They lasted for weeks before her supply inevitably ran empty. Thereafter she relied completely on the hope of coming across another forest of the like, but to her dismay she had not, and thus was forced to consume the varying forms of alien fauna she came across. Unlike the fruit, the “animals” she ate (And all of them where squamous, slimy, tentacled things that had no place in a human being’s body, let alone on the Earth itself) tasted like rotting apples. Actually, Clair considered rotting apples a treat compared to what she was forced to eat in the weeks leading to the present moment.

 

Starving, however severe it may have seemed, was, in truth, the second most pressing matter on her mind. The first was the subject of quest, which she had no idea what that was supposed to be. She was abandoned on Earth by The Crawling Chaos, and left utterly oblivious to her own identity and her origins, so since then she felt the ever tugging urge to discover just that. But she had not a single clue where she was supposed to find her answers. So far she had not seen much intelligent life of Earth. Aside from the inhabitants of Sy-or, which were glimpsed from a distance, the only beings to be met where enigmatic entities virtually no different than beasts and plants in behavior. With that said, there was also no civilization and no recorded history, so miraculously being at liberty to research a civilization that perished aeons ago was beginning to look unlikely. Even if she did meet a civilized, intelligent creature—a “Great Old One”—what would she even ask it? “You guys happen to have any books on the human race? Think you could tell me who I am or where my family is? Just point me in the direction of the magical truth-telling history super oracle, if you’d be so kind.” Clair had already accepted that she was nothing more than a bug compared to Earth’s new inhabitants. She found it very doubtful that they would spare any attention to her needs, given they could even understand English.

 

However, the only reason she had not yet given up on her quest were the dreams she had been experiencing every night since her homecoming. Since the very first, Clair knew they held some sort of significance because they followed a kind of pattern. More accurately, they all played out more like memories rather than amalgams of random thoughts. At first, she was at a loss to explain any of the events she experienced in these visions due to the utterly alien settings and characters. The details remained a mental fog but she had the distinct feeling that she walked the streets of a city far larger than Celephais and just as aesthetically grand as Sy-or; streets that triggered a sense of homesickness that only the thoughts of Ulthar could achieve. She talked with people who wore the same clothing as her and had the same haggard, oriental face as her; people who carried the unshakable air of kindred. To put it simply, those earlier dreams felt much like glimpses of her true home, the one she might have cherished before her first death but, sadly, couldn’t remember on her own accord. And thus she began to believe that that was exactly what her nightly visions were supposed to be. Every so often, these dreams would often blend with the dimly recollected memories of Ulthar, rarely achieving any sort of comforting harmony—unlike her most recent nightmare—but almost always seeming to confirm in some form or fashion that the dreams stemmed from a deeply buried past life and not casual fancy.

 

The dreams held the answers she needed, so she believed. That’s why she resolved to record every dream she had and make sure she could remember the details as clearly as possible after awakening, because she knew that those details were the pieces of a puzzle that she had been tasked with solving. When that puzzle is solved, Clair would have a chance at finally understanding where she came from, who she is, and most importantly, what the meaning of her life is and the reason for her reincarnation on a dead world. She had no pen or paper, but she did have the planet’s surface, universally laden with ash.

 

Replaying her ninety-ninth dream in her mind, she fell to her knees and hastily began etching her ninety-ninth account in the ground.


	2. Another Day in Paradise

_Day 99_

_I was in Ulthar again. I was crying, and my parents were at the door yelling at/to me. I kept repeating “Daddy’s dead”, or maybe it was “I killed Daddy.” Simultaneously, I was in Ulthar yet in the strange, reoccurring palace. I was dressed as a royal. In the palace aspect of the dream, a man lied before me; the likewise reoccurring individual I believed to be “Daddy”. I somehow killed him. Meanwhile, in the Ulthar aspect, Willow was approaching. But he wasn’t the Willow I knew, it was something else. A thing that kinda looked like a crayfish. I think I panicked, and I struck him with some kind of object (I don’t know if it was a weapon or a pen or what…). At that moment, the palace vanished and I was only in Ulthar. Willow ran away, bleeding and crying. My “true” parents came in, panicked when they saw the blood and my disheveled state. I asked father “What is wrong with me?”_

 

…

 

Clair stared and pondered over the inscription in the dirt, partially oblivious to the hours that went by. She was kneeling before the cluster of carefully etched scratches that composed the final sentence of the account, her eyes repeatedly passed over every word and she was reading aloud, just under her breath. The dream from which this synopsis was derived had, expectedly, faded into a distant memory, but she had fortunately managed to jot it into the dirt while it remained fresh on her mind, effectively preserving it (at least in part) for her personal reflection.

 

She had done this before, numerous times. Ninety-eight to be exact. Every dream she had experienced since her rebirth she was forced to preserve it somehow, before it became forgotten. She lacked the necessary writing materials—much like many other essential things she desperately needed—so writing into the ground like a kid creating doodles in sand was the only alternative she had. She wouldn’t dare let the visions her dreams provided her be forgotten, so doing this seemingly inane task was of the utmost importance to her. Hence she made it a priority to scribble the narratives immediately upon her awakening, while her memory was still vivid in her early morning grogginess.

 

As she relentlessly studied, Clair felt she could dredge up those recently faded memories and experience them anew. This was almost true. She could remember, ever so slightly more clearly than under normal circumstances, but the images were far from pristine. The man she murdered (or believed to have murdered), out of everything, was by far the most hazy aspect, refusing to conform to a specific impression. All at once, this person was her father, yet not; he was a lanky, balding gentleman, yet also a black-haired, thin faced scarecrow clad in black robes; he was dead, yet wasn’t. Regardless, Clair knew that the man was a reoccurring figure in her dreams, sometimes adopting the form of the gentleman, but most of the time he was the the scarier fellow whom Clair identified as her father. The man, like many other details, was important. If he was indeed a father or father-like figure in Clair’s past life then he could answer many of her long held questions with his presence alone. She clung to that hope, but so far the man couldn’t fit very well into the theories she had cooked up, mainly due to the fact that her enigmatic first life and her Ulthar life were almost constantly being mixed together into a chaotic miasma, so that she couldn’t determine which life the man fit into. The only things that stood out about her and the man’s relationship was that he might have been her father and that she might have killed him.

 

She shifted those ideas in her mind, letting them settle into a firm spot into her memory before moving on. She thought of Willow. Out of everything from her existence in the Dreamlands, Willow was the only thing that remained clear and lasting in her mind while everything else receded into virtual nothingness. She could say with certainty that she held a relationship with that cat, a kind of friendship. Now, the feelings for the animal have mostly become null and void, considering she now knew that Willow never actually existed in the first place, but his memory was heavily laden with a sense of longing and nostalgia, possibly because he was a remnant of a much better time in her three lives, when she wasn’t starving to death in a planet wide graveyard caked in human ashes. In any case, Willow was important as well. But like the relativity of his emotional connotations and his basic stance in existence, the fact of Willow being a cat was called into question. Was Willow a feline or a nameless quasi-organic monster? What is the significance of his latter form? And why must Willow appear as such? In the Dreamlands, Willow was Clair’s lifelong partner—her inseparable, irreplaceable best friend and primary source of comfort—until he was stricken dead by an entity Clair couldn’t remember in a place she couldn’t remember. She was devastated by that then, and over time her melancholy only grew as the cat’s absence weighed on her. However, she dimly remembered how Nyarlathotep convinced her that Clair herself was Willow’s real murderer, and wondered if the dream was meant to somehow reflect that supposed chapter of her life, despite the fact that “Willow” didn’t seem to die. It was irritating, Clair thought, how that logic made little sense.

 

Moving on again, she then fixated her vision on the last five words of her account: “What is wrong with me?”. Self explanatory. Pretty much everything in her life leading up to the current moment—even many of the events that transpired on her “dream path” —seemed to point to the simple fact that she was utterly fucked in the head. Aside from her almost thorough amnesia, her dreams always seemed to depict her as a hyper emotional, delusional, sociopathic, schizophrenic, sadistic outcast that alternates between savage spells of murderous rage and paranoid despondency, with a couple other states of mind that were no less disturbing. For example, in one nightmare she had very brutally mutilated a horned creature (a satyr perhaps) and thereafter, doing the same to what was either a portly man that molested her or a younger guy that had apparently done nothing to provoke her wrath. In another, Clair had masturbated to the sight of a giant salamander-like thing smearing the liquified remains of a human between its floppy claws like crimson soap. Not all of her dreams were this bad, of course, but those few were enough to instigate the general idea of what her past life might have been like. She knew this didn’t have to be the case. Dreams, however real they may seem, are always distorted to some extent. She only hoped that the things being distorted are her insane actions. In the real world and in the present moment, however, her “true” personality seemed to be at odds with the more monsterous persona she occasionally adapts in dreams. She couldn’t safely say she knew herself well enough to judge wether or not she was truly this demented, but she did know that she had now walked the Earth for over three months and not once did she ever get off to the sight of a lizard killing the crap out of a man, let alone anything with a pulse. At a casual glance, Clair figured herself to be fairly civilized woman, albeit a little ill tempered (but how else would one be expected to behave after spending a quarter of a year in the dusty desert of madness and death?). But regardless of how much she wanted to ignore it at times, those dreams are most likely remnants of distant memories, and could very well betray an alternate face of herself that she knows very little of. It confused her. But sadly, that’s nothing new.

 

All in all, though, her dreams provided fleeting glimpses, but was never enough to piece together a believable narrative of her former existence. So far, all she understood was that she once lived a life in a massive, black city along with other sallow skinned, narrow eyed people. In this world, she knew a few nameless individuals that, obviously, made an impact on her life in ways both negative and (maybe) positive. She might have been a lunatic, but she really hoped not. Then the Great Old Ones came and made Earth their new home, Killing Clair and millions of other humans in the process. She was reincarnated in Ulthar, and therein lived a completely normal existence for thirteen years, all the while utterly oblivious to the life she once lived on a planet she then thought to exist only in the spooky fiction of a long dead pulp fiction writer. After a sudden and unnecessarily dramatic quest from there to Kadath, Nyarlathotep killed her (again) and now she’s reborn (again) on Earth, thousands of years after her first death. And, sadly, she was still ignorant of the greater portion of her own life. Most of this didn’t even come from the dreams at all. It was, for her, either history or disquieting disclosures courtesy of Nyarlathotep.

 

The environment took on a vividly crystalline pallor as the stars moved in ways that amplified their normally soft glow, which helped rouse Clair from her internal pondering. Looking up she saw the violet sun slithering through the sky like a massive, blazing starfish. A smaller, pinkish sun remained relatively fixed in the firmaments apex as the simmering curves of the sun creeped closer. When the greater star began eclipsing the smaller, there was bright flood of magenta light that flashed between the two, rays stretching outward like the pedals of a shining flower into the miasmic space outside the two stars’ parameters. The bleak walls of the canyon, like the mosaic of the Gestalt above, were suddenly awash in this light. The many trillions ofgrains of ash and dust—both on the ground and drifting snow-like in the air— took on the visage of powdered diamonds,sparkling in the all consuming veil of light. Clair stared in mild awe as the the flash thrummed for a few seconds before receding back to it’s place of origin. The pink star was gone, either consumed in purple flames or merely hiding behind them, destined to reappear once the giant has finished it’s daily arc. Elsewhere in the Gestalt sky, ringed planets floated in schools around a tightly packed quartet of suns; a pyramid shaped amalgam of polygons blazed with the luster of polished metal as it tethered itself to a partially destroyed moon via a string of liquid fire; a black-and-crimson planet laden with very visible knife-like spires peeked over the horizon; and a winged beneath vaguely resembling a bass rocketed overhead, briefly being set afire as it skimmed the upper atmosphere before sharply turning towards space again. In a nonstop dance, these planets, stars, moons, nebulae, space-flung machines, aether beasts, comets, dark-stars, and many other…things…moved and drifted with a dizzying display of colors, lights, and shapes that would have put the most extravagant art of the most gifted artist to shame. The suns and worlds of the Gestalt Ethereal—the cobbled together universe of which Earth is only one infinitely small part of—moved on like this through the nights and days, much like how the bland celestial bodies of the Dreamlands used to shift. This is one thing Clair couldn’t help dwelling on: every day she witnesses this miracle of unearthly beauty, and yet never thinks much of it, merely pushing forward on a day to day basis under the impression that the Gestalt is a perfectly average sight. She once knew only one moon, one sun, and twelve constellations. Now, all of the sudden, every time she looks up, she sees a whole new assortment of radically different moons and stars like blobs of luminescent paint, intermingled with things she couldn’t even give names to. How she had not yet gone mad with mind shattering amazement might forever be her greatest mystery.

 

She stood and took one last glance at the words she scribbled in the dirt before starting off on her journey once more, leaving the ninety-ninth account to whatever weathering will efface it in the future.

 

…

 

The day passed with no drama. She simply marched on, indifferent to her surroundings as she locked herself within her own mind. Constantly, she cycled through and revisited the same thoughts, theories, and hopes, over and over, every hour, every minute, until she found something edible or found a place to sleep; something to at least distract her from her self centered monotony. When she wasn’t eating and sleeping, she was thinking and walking. Where to, she had no clue, and yet was not at all sure she really wanted to know. North and South, East and West, due to the absence of familiar stars or a sun, were all virtually nonexistent, as was any other inkling of her location. The continent she trod had no name, as far as she knew, and neither did any other land or ocean outside her scope (given that said lands and oceans actually existed at all). It was both frustrating and terrifyingly intriguing to be in the position of having absolutely no earthly idea as to where in the gods’ blasted black Earth she stood. Clair might as well have been blind, because at this point the only thing she could think to do was to simply shuffle along until she bumped into something worth paying any attention to, be it something alive and deadly or something inert and suggestive of arcane knowledge.

 

And all this…this is the way it was for Clair throughout the previous three and half months: bland and confusing.

 

Of course, she didn’t except today to be any different. Hours after leaving the canyon, she found herself traversing acres of bluish sand dunes that seemed more solid than they actually were solely because they glittered like a rippled sea of sapphires in the evening suns. But the loose surface was more akin to an actual sea. In too many places the sands were so fine and so sparsely compacted that Clair’s boots would often sink with ease, and she would have to stop and empty her already heavy footwear of the sand clods that became wedged within. If it weren’t for the thick socks that came with her only outfit, the powdered glass would likely shred the skin on her heels.

 

Though the terrain was a true pain in the ass to negotiate, the weather was mysteriously comfortable. Another thing she couldn’t figure out—and never bothered to dwell on for fear of straining her imagination to a breaking point—was how a planet situated between several hundred closely packed stars and constantly being bombarded with prismatic solar rays could stay perpetually cool. The climate was always that of a early spring morning; a very chill, breezy atmosphere, restrained from becoming unbearably cold only by the open sunlight which, in itself, remained fair. The atmosphere, however, seemed virtually nonexistent at times, as it was so stagnant. There was no blue sky, but an orgy of colors and shapes that served as the view of both night and day. There were clouds, but they never seemed wholesome. They were never white, only black, and seemed to lack a great deal of volume, yet at the same time swallowed whole fragments of the sky. Sometimes, with the lights of the Gestalt refracting through them, the clouds would look like iridescent rags flapping between heaven and Earth with thin diagonal shafts of shifting colors flittering through them like gay searchlights. Where these shafts would terminate on the Earth’s surface there were always nimbuses of oddly foreboding fairy light, which were usually filled with blossoming oasis’ of crystal plants. Odd, eerie, and lonesome patches of dazzling forms in a sea of bleak nothing. The transparent fronds would absorb the lights and shoot forth yet more shafts of color, thus giving these enigmatic little islands the look of a massive, ghostly octopus’, extending their “tentacles” infinitely in every direction. For a time Clair wondered why the crystal gardens were confined only to areas where the sunlight hit the ground, until she happened to witness a shaft of light slowly phasing into existence. Where it touched the sands were suddenly and violently ejected from their resting places as the crystal plants blasted their way from under the earth, swinging out their thin arms as if greeting the open air with gusto. Part of what made the moment so memorable (aside from the obvious) was that the sudden blossoming and resulting cloud of displaced sapphire dust scared the living shit out of her. In hindsight, the experience was sorta comical. She found she was able to laugh at herself and her typical human timidity much later on, but the moment the glass-like foliage sprung upwards with a sound like an avalanche, she actually screamed and blindly fired her weapon. The beam struck the arisen garden, striking down one of the plants and turning it into glittering snow, but when no other reaction came Clair quickly assumed the glass plants were inanimate, or at least non-sentient, apparently being nothing more than, well, plants. She gave her nerves a little time to steady before going to investigate. The plants weren’t wholly unfamiliar—for she had once seen a whole forest of similar beings before—but they were different enough to confound her at first glance. Famished, the first thing she looked for was fruit, but found none. Wether it wasn’t a favorable season or she had happened across a species incapable of producing fruit, she had no idea. What was clear, though, is that there was nothing edible in this garden. However, there were a score of incredible… flowers. If one could call them that. In truth, Clair was at a total loss to assign a name to the intricate, almost radial growths covering the glass-plants, and that wasn’t because she had a comparatively limited vocabulary. For one, the “flowers” were not blue or red or violet or green or yellow. Or orange. Or pink. Or black. Or white. Or anything that could conceivably be considered a color. Much like a few of the stars in the Gestalt, the “flowers” were hued in a myriad of strange shades beyond her ability to fathom. Alien colors, or colors out of space, to put it more poetically. Looking at the odd spectrum made her eyes and temples ache, but she couldn’t not stare at it. Casually, she began giving the new colors names, much like now a kid would give silly names to bugs they have never seen before. Ghoolmic. Tysha. Filpo. Humnha. She went on like this for a while.

 

The “flowers” also seemed to violate basic three-dimensional space, conforming to no particular shape, dimension, or position. At one angle, the “petals” seemed to be stretching towards the sun. At a slightly different angle, they radiated outwards, allowing the vibrating, kaleidoscopic heart to leer directly at the onlooking woman. And always the whole structure seemed to be moving in a myriad of ways that contradicted each other. It was rotating, pivoting, contracting, expanding, rippling, and doing many other things that created the illusion of the thing outright vanishing for brief moments. At the peak of her fascination, she considered picking the insane bloom but shied away when she suddenly imagined it snapping off her fingers with it’s shard-like leaves or swallowing her whole and banishing her to a dark oblivion. Deterred by her own disturbing speculations, she continued on past the oasis.

 

Monotony ensued again as she continued her walk across the blue dunes. The purple sun was nearing the far horizon, forfeiting the smaller stars it had “consumed” earlier into plain visibility. As the sun grew further, it grew dimmer, and it’s deathly halo shrunk with it’s bearer. The sky returned to total iridescence by the time the sun kissed the far horizon, colors from other simmering bodies rushing back into the spaces between them like celestial osmosis. If it could be called such, dusk was upon the Earth, and soon the daily stage that could be loosely called night would follow. Clair’s internal clock, only slightly adjusted since her rebirth, told her it was time to rest.

 

Fortunately, she later found out she did not have to sleep half buried in the ash again. Just as the dreadful memory began setting in—the taste of the fine but bitter substance on her tongue and the irritation of it clogging her ears and less mentionable places—she spotted an ivory gleam besmirching the ongoing field of rolling gray, somewhere off in the distance. She quickly deduced that the anomaly was well over a kilometer and a half from herself, but even at that distance she could tell what it was by the shape and size of it alone. It slumped over the ash, it’s great length thrown across a trio of dunes like a wet piece of cloth. It’s serpentine, curving form was clearly evocative of a living being. Or at least, it used to be alive. Strutting closer at a pace just under speed waking, she noticed the succession of arches that were it’s ribs, the jagged train of bones that were once spindly limbs, and a massive dome of filthy white, pierced by several random sockets and crowned with a cluster of horns like the spires of Thalarion. At one casual glance, the titanic skeleton looked at peace as if it were merely resting it’s old, old body, but another assured Clair that the beast was quite dead, as it surely had been for a long time. She wondered if the nameless gargantuan was just another example of new-Earth fauna that had given it’s self to death as some point in the past, or if it had once shared the world with humanity, with whom it now shares a grave. She’ll never know.

 

She closed the remaining few meters separating the dead titan and herself. Standing before a troop of perfectly erect ribs towering over her by serval dozen feet, she realized that the skeleton was far, far bigger than she initially thought. Her first thought upon seeing it up close was that it was like a bleached train, each vertebrae the size of a car, and the bones far bigger. Although it wasn’t the body that interested her, but the head. A cranium that massive would doubtlessly make a ideal shelter, given that there was enough of it left.

 

She walked the serpentine length, in and out of the long shadows the ribs flung across the ash. They shrunk and tapered until only the spine remained. And at the end of that was the head. In truth, though, it was less of a head and more of a giant otherworldly mace, with dully shaded and heavily cracked horns scraping the Gestalt sky and branching off into every direction. There were eye and nostril sockets, but they were lifeless and half hidden in the jungle of horns. Evidently, the skull was partially buried, with possibly only the smallest portion visible above ground, but despite this the maw still yawned open just enough above the surface to allow the haggard woman to crawl within the interior. It was a tight squeeze between broad, yellowed fangs that bridged the skull and the ground in a similar fashion to prison bars, but she still managed her way into the shadows of the interior. In the time it took for her vision to adjust, she could already tell that the floor of her morbid hotel was thick with mud in some places and out right flooded in others, much to her disappointment. Her boots struck the ground, and the sound of splashing water and squelching clumps of wet dirt echoed though the tiny chamber in a nasty cacophony, eventually falling silent and allowing Clair to internally bitch about her situation in a quiet atmosphere. She wondered if sleeping and freezing her ass off in a marsh inside a giant skull was preferable to sleeping out in the open where Polyps were free to devour her at will and To-Chue’s could senselessly lick her while she was out (the latter actually happened to her once and she wouldn’t dare let it happen again).

 

Then, logic kicked in. Water! A much needed commodity she had been denied for the past week, and now she was literally standing ankle deep in it! Her severally dried throat and stomach lurched and trembled at the thought of finally being rehydrated; feeling the cool, smooth moisture penetrate her longing flesh and at long last relieve that subtle but unrelenting ache that had seized her being. If only there could be a hidden trunk full of fresh apples and chocolate hidden somewhere in the dark corners of the skull, that would be great, but for right now Clair was just thankful to finally have some sweet, sweet water in her grasp! Falling to her hands and knees as if in prayer, she laughed a sincere laugh and thanked the nameless gods above for this unexpected gift. Throwing aside her virtually nonexistent dignity, she dunked her mouth in the deepest part of the pool and drank up.

 

What’s when she noticed it.

 

The sensation on her tongue was like a score of burning needles slicing the tender flesh with the painstaking slowness of a artist carving a statue. To make the feeling worse, the liquid seemed to be squirming and crawling all over the inside of her cheeks and between her teeth.

 

“Wha da fuck?” She slurred through a sore mouth full of tainted water. “Wha da fuck?! Da fuck is wrong with this water?!” Shocked, she quickly stood up, and the top of her head slammed against the low roof. “FUCK!” She swore, stumbling backwards in this absolutely embarrassing fit of confusion. She cradled her throbbing skull as she tried to make her way to the exit, half-blind from disorientation, of course. But was halted again when her forehead made hard contact with the giant teeth that composed the edge of the “door”. Fresh pain and the heat of anger spread through her face as she continued to yell “Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Mother fu- FUCK! Gods-fucking-dammit! Fuck! Why?! Fucking WHY?! FUCK!”

 

After another failed and humiliating attempt at leaving (and another string of vulgarities) that played out no differently than the previous, she finally managed the simple task of getting outside and promptly fell to the dry ash, knees first. With a head throbbing with searing pain, she tried to shove aside her frustration, and would have succeeded had the disgusting wiggling feeling in her mouth subsided. But it hadn’t. Her tongue, though it hurt, felt like it was being tickled from the inside, something that gave her numerous disturbing thoughts as to what in the nine hells was happened inside her own mouth.Spitting didn’t help. And she really wanted to vomit, but her stomach was so empty she doubted she could have regurgitate even dust bunnies. For some crazy reason Clair thought shoveling a handful of earth past her lips would help, but fortunately she managed to restrain herself before she could grab a clump of ash. Instead she reached in and clawed her ragged nails across her tongue. She already diagnosed herself when the wiggling somehow transferred from tongue to fingertips. She confirmed this when she pulled her hand out and saw her fingers covered in three or four dozen tiny creatures that might have been hybrids between tapeworms and dried grapes, each one about a quarter of the size of her pinky nail. With their little triangular heads half burrowed into her thick skin, their thread-like tails thrashed in a way that kinda reminded the already disturbed Clair of sperm cells invading an egg (a bit of knowledge that, like most others, she had no recollection of ever learning). As a second thought, she also fancied the worms being similar to mosquito larvae swimming aimlessly in a diminutive pond of stagnant water, until something big and stupid disrupts their pointless wandering. No doubt thats how Clair ended up in this pathetic situation. Throwing caution to the wind, she dunked her face into a puddle full of these things like a retarded kid and ended up with a mouthful of parasites. She knew she kinda deserved this after such recklessness, but she was still pissed.

 

“Little fuckers.” She cursed under her breath. As if in response, one worm unlatched itself and limply fell into her open palm, thereafter lifting its head to stare at the giantess’ cringing face with near microscopic eyes that were too human for her comfort. She could have swore she heard the creature taunt “Ha! Ha! You dumb bitch!”

 

With another swear, she dragged her hand through the dirt a few times, crushing, smothering, and killing the worms. She fished around her mouth and repeated the tiny slaughter until all the bugs were purged and she was left only with a swollen tongue and a bruised forehead. Everything above her neck was in pain, which wasn’t helped by the fact that she was still dehydrated, starving, and exhausted.

 

She signed, rubbing her temples and wetting her dry mouth (or tried to at least). Feeling defeated once again, she fell on her back and sprawled across the dirt in something of an attempt to relax. It didn’t work, but at least those damn worms were evicted from her body. Overhead, somewhere near the apex of the sky, another one of the planets were rolling across the heavens, just a tad faster than the other ones usually do. In just two minutes the planet had eclipsed and un-eclipsed two tiny stars and another body that was either shadowed in a way that made it look like it was cloven in two or was actually cloven in two. This planet (the one that moved like a fleeing rabbit) was black; pure, unblemished black, so much so that it looked more like a endlessly deep hole in space rather than a ball of rock and air. It seemed to drown and distort the lights from the surrounding stars as it passed. Quaintly, it brought to mind the image of some kind of black ghoul hopping about in a garden of exotic flowers and trees, a blemish in a land of unearthly beauty. Like the giant, sickly moon (who’s veined edge could be seen peaking over a distant mountain range) the black planet would have been a perfect sphere had it not been for the myriad of thin spikes or spires covering it’s curves, which made the silhouette look much more like a charred burr rather than any normal planet.

 

She yawned. Her lips and tongue made a dry smacking sound that did something to reminded Clair of how startlingly quiet the world was at the moment. Minutes later, just when she was starting to get comfortable on her rock-hard “bed”, the wind suddenly picked up and whipped through the air, carrying with it a vast plume of ash that temporarily obscured the view of the Gestalt. As the startled woman starting coughing out the torrent of ash that flew down her nose and mouth, a shrill cry like a howling of agony fluttered with the gale. She flinched at the noise and her hand instantly fell to Astylvere’s handle, fully expecting yet another outer blasphemy to disrupt her peace. She eased upon noticing that the sound originated from the gargantuan skeletal remains, particularly the skull. It was merely the wind, whipping through the weaving cracks and sockets of the dusty cranium and creating eerie music.

 

Rolling her eyes at her own vulnerability, she laid back down, just in time for the wind and the dust storm to subside. She made a mental note to hide within the sockets of the skull when “nighttime” came. They seemed large enough to accommodate her, and could very well be deep enough to effectively seal herself away from the hunting eyes of predators. Hopefully there wouldn’t be any more micro-worms and their imaginary teasing. She reckoned she had a half hour or so before dusk though, so she figured she could spend that time stargazing. So long as she’s alone, she might as well flex her creativity and creature stupid names for the Gestalt’s residents.

 

The Green Gang. Fuzzy Balls. Poison Cauldron. Du-Mu Star. Big Ball… other Big Ball. Crazy Star. With a lot of bright colors? Rainbow Orb. Or Rainbow Ball. After about five minutes of that she quit, realizing she’s not very creative.

 

As the black planet neared the horizon, it crossed over one last star: The great purple sun. For an intriguing few minutes, the world was darkened a little more than usual as the black planet eased it’s way in front of the sun. Clair looked on in wonder as the black planet was suddenly rimmed in the thick violet halo of a star that appeared to be much bigger than itself. Regardless, the black planet seemed to ruthless dominate the simmering giant as it’s inky surface glutinously swallowed the radiance.

 

Staring at the mesmerizing solar eclipse and the ring of slumbering light around the yawning hole, a name for the black planet suddenly spawned in her mind. She didn’t know if it was her own lackluster creativity or another buried memory, but she suddenly had the pressing feeling that she should henceforth call the brooding world Yuggoth.


	3. A King And His Throne

_Betwixt heaven and Earth, we bear the stars proudly upon our shoulders._

_For the sanctity of peace, in agony we may joyously shout and sing._

_Long live the Gestalt Ethereal, eternally my motherland._

_Forever I stay on my knees, and kiss the hands of my divine King._

_—Unknown_

 

 

 

 

 

Gazing blithely through the small window of his personal airship, Emperor Dlo’Yug witnessed the rare spectacle of it’s home planet eclipsing Sol-3151937. It was fascinating watching the flames of that young star dancing around the firm circumference of that old world, throbbing streams and nebulous globules of violet light against the comforting black frame of Yuggoth-567L, which once orbited so far away from that same sun that the dimly burning sphere of fire was little less than another star in the sky. Now, evidently, the two bodies were so close that the sun dwarfed Yuggoth, even from the perspective of the distant planet called Earth. Once Yuggoth was dark and cold. Now it’s considerably less dark and far from cold. To this day Dlo’Yug could never decide on wether or not to consider that a good thing.

 

The Emperor—after having its optical organs locked on the blur of purple and black for an indeterminate but lengthy amount of time—decided to look away from the window and doze for little. The passenger cabin was largely empty, with Dlo itself being the sole occupant, but the ambiance wasn’t entirely quiet. Music drifted through the room, a playlist of songs and short instrumental pieces that Dlo’Yug handpicked for it’s journey. It always liked listening to music during slow and uneventful moments like this, especially music from Yuggoth-109-6B’s mid-seventh century renaissance. The Emperor relaxed and hummed to itself in satisfaction as one of it’s least favorite scores ended and segued into the next: a lovely three part movement that sounds much like the soothing braying of Byakhee’s and Tind’losi in harmony, called“Kadath Dawn”, performed by audial artisan BNP-785-0. If that genius were still alive, perhaps it would be honored to know that the high ruler of the Yuggoth Planetary Empire thoroughly enjoyed it’s music.

 

For a few jarring seconds the proton engines screeched and rattled the bullet shaped hull, but eventually silenced and left the vessel to drift through the stratosphere as peacefully as a winged spore. The ship—a heavily armored Type-4 Sluoca Transport Unit, designed specifically for ferrying aristocrats—had just reached cruising altitude, a half mile above a thin layer of black and iridescent clouds, pierced only by the occasional rifts. From these rifts the Yuggothian royalty could behold the ragged trails of mountains and veins of rivers that split the floral continent of Tulm’uk-Obeleze like cracks in a vast pane of wonderfully painted window. On the ground, the glass jungles and deciduous fungus forests of Tulm’uk were beautiful enough, but when one ventures to take flight and gaze at the lands of Earth with a birds eye, one will gain an entirely new appreciation for the terrestrial wildlife, as well as the civilized life huddled in the surface citadels of the K’n-yani and the Valusians. Across thousands of acres stretched those mats of shivering hues and sinuous forms, those flaring crinoids and gargantuan Fu’y’ias trees mixed with the clean, transparent corkscrews and pyramids of the Xux-Lu. And of course, the occasional signs of civil intelligence, manifest in the form of light-freckled black domes, wherein lived the foreign colonists of Abri’Th and F’l’gem.

 

Those sights were, of course, nothing new to Dlo’Yug. It had witnessed the passage of those mountains and cities each and every time it had taken the express route from it’s Revenue Center to the capital building of the Tri-Kingdom Aristocratic Order, but the expanses became no less beautiful over time. As an individual who prided itself on having an optical organ for true, natural beauty, Dlo’Yug could never help itself when it comes to indulging its senses on the absolutely gorgeous biomes of Earth, especially when said planet was—in addition to being like a second home—almost literally his creation. He played only a supporting role in Earth’s grand apotheosis, admittedly, but it was beyond argument that the planet would have never seen these strange aeons of today had it not been for the Kingdom of Yuggoth’s intervention. Granted the planet was around long before the Emperor knew it existed, but that was a long gone era when the Earth’s surface was covered in disgusting, green carbon-based organism that constantly belched oxygen into the air, which the even more repulsive mammals would then suck into their hairy bodies as to permit their continued existence. That was an age of pollution, filth, and corruption; an age where this gem of a planet was blanketed in a vast layer of rotting, breathing organic matter and toxic gases. And all of it was either green or brown, both being truly hideous colors in Dlo’s opinion. It was all so vastly different compared to the pure Star-Flesh of the Old Ones and the clean atmosphere they carried with them. When Dlo’Yug first touched down on Earth—some nineteen thousand years ago, back when he was an ambassador—it was left utterly aghast by just how alien this world was. Dlo’ could go on and on about the appallingly overwhelming sights, sounds, smells, and such, but the only thing that needs to be said is that Dlo’Yug hates organic matter, and any being composed of the putrid substance. Unfortunately, as an ambassador—and by extension, a diplomat and a politician—Dlo was forced to choke back its loathing and pretend that it was comfortable letting that foul chemical oxygen brush its exoskeleton.

 

Anyways, that’s what Earth used to be and Dlo’Yug couldn’t be more grateful that that era was over. Ever since the Old Ones migrated the whole star system into the Gestalt Ethereal—Earth, Yuggoth-567L, and Yuggoth-568L included—most of all that nasty rubbish was exterminated, quite literally wiped out of existence in what is, without debate, the most epic extinction event this solar system has ever seen. There were few exceptions however. The Kingdoms of Sy-or, the Deep Ones, Valusia, Throk, and a few scant remnants of mankind were forced to undergo a radical transformation before the migration, if they wished to survive. The Migration was an act of Yog-Sothoth—at the behest of Cthulhu, Hastur, and Dlo’Yug itself—and to most that would automatically connate the idea of death; a very quick, clean death. The Gestalt Ethereal is, simply put, a universe built specifically to accommodate the Great Old Ones, and thus structured for the comfort of beings composed of Star-Flesh on a subatomic level (There’s a whole mess of Yekubian level physics that goes hand in hand with this concept, but that’s the basic idea). Carbon based matter cannot exist within the Gestalt, and this fact was not lost to the all seeing eye of the All-In-One. In the same act as taking the star system from it’s own universe and putting it in the Gestalt, Yog-Sothoth had also caused the deaths of trillions upon trillions of organic beings, purely as a casualty. In order to avoid this rapture, those unfortunate enough to be made of organic flesh had to adapt, and thus select mages from the world over managed to change the compositions of themselves and their respective civilizations to beings of Star-Flesh via a system of biochemistry that Dlo could never care to explain. Nowadays carbon matter is a thing of ancient history, and yet the Syorians and Deep Ones still survive, and in fact share control over the Earth with the Kingdom of Yuggoth.

 

With history on the mind, Dlo’Yug was compelled to once again gaze out the window. It had to relax. Thinking about recent history and the bittersweet ending of the human era was not going to do the Yuggothian any good, much less relieve it’s everyday stresses. Anyhow, such things are for the likes of the archivist, not kings. Still, it was during moments like this that Dlo’Yug couldn’t help but appreciate history for the way it had happened.

 

Outside, in the sky’s East quadrant, the planet Yuggoth was already moving out of 3151937’s face, and like the star itself will quickly disappear beneath the horizon within the next hour. Dlo’Yug looked at the clock—a hexagonal, greenish screen standing out in the center of a circle of deactivated communication units—mounted on the wall adjacent to it’s own seat. The clock showed that the current time was 45:78:12. Just a few minutes until the next day officially begins, and exactly an hour and a half before Dlo’s meeting with N’hil’eh and Y’m Ellaeor is set to start.

 

Begrudgingly, Dlo’Yug tapped the screen mounted button that switched off the ambience, silencing “Kadath Dawn” right in the middle of its crescendo. Moving it’s claws to another set of controls, Dlo flipped a switch, prompting another screen to flash to life, which proudly displayed the shield of the Tri-Kingdom Aristocratic Order before loading a live feed from the ship’s cockpit. There, amid a semicircle of switches, buttons, and lights, sat a Pilot Variant-501-T Yuggothian, easily identifiable by the dozens of near sinuous arms that continuously flew from one control panel to the next while the three eyes mounted atop it’s head swiveled to and fro, keeping professional vigil over it’s many gauges. Unlike the passenger cabin—which usually stayed fairly well lit due to the the flood of multicolored light spilling in from the columns of windows lining the walls and ceiling—the cockpit was very dark. The only illumination came from the thousands of control knobs at the pilot’s fingertips, which was just bright enough to let the Emperor know that the officer was there at all.

 

“ _Youll-Teth?_ ” Dlo’Yug buzzed, addressing the pilot by name. As the Emperor spoke, the palpitating antennae covering it’s head shifted from light red and gray to the inquisitive colors of magenta and green, displaying Dlo’s curious mood plainly.

 

At first the pilot didn’t seem to notice Dlo’s transmission. It continued to rapidly move from one set of controls to the next, paying no mind to the communication screen which should be displaying Dlo’Yug’s face or the speakers echoing Dlo’s query. This was the problem with 501-T’s. They’re so single minded when it comes to their task that they easily and inadvertently tune out even the most obvious aspects of their environment. For simple minded Youll-Teth, those flashing buttons and toggles was its entire world at the moment. On one claw, it was reassuring that Dlo’Yug’s subordinates were so dedicated to their tasks. Such diligence greatly advances the Yuggoth Empire, and the thought generally makes the proud Emperor very glad for individuals like this. But on the other claw, there’s trivial yet irritating moments like this, where said subordinate ends up ignoring it’s own king. Dlo’Yug laughed to itself, bitterly amused at this little situation before readdressing “ _Teth? Are you paying attention?_ ”

 

The pilot flinched at the Emperor’s calling. It’s antenna turned a disheartening shade of turquoise as the startled creature looked around for a moment, as if it had no idea where the droning voice came from or who it belonged to. Then, finally, Teth noticed it’s own monitor, it’s head immediately thereafter adopting the hues of pink and sanguine in both relief and remorse. “My sincerest apologies, my Lord.” Teth bowed, one arm diverging to turn the knob that increased the volume on it’s end. “ _What would you ask of me, Your Highness? Is everything quite alright?_ ”

 

“ _Indeed it is._ ” Dlo’Yug responded, turning a stern gray again to convey his authority. “ _However, it would be much appreciated if you would respond only to my first hailing the next time I am in need of you. Is that clear?_ ”

 

The pilot huddled all of it’s limbs together and turned the set of colors that expressed utter terror. “ _I understand. I apologize again._ ”

 

“ _No need for apologies. Your folly is understandable. Just do not let this happen again. Now, if I may ask: Can you give me an estimated time till our arrival at the Pinnacle?_ ”

 

“ _Of course, my Lord. Give me just a few seconds…_ ” Teth turned towards a smaller screen flashing a torrent of numbers and figures. The pilot seemed transfixed for a brief moment as it stared deeply into those readings, it’s antenna vibrating with the rapid calculations inside it’s mind. “ _Approximately twenty minutes until we reach the Pinnacle’s air port, given that the weather remains fair._ ”

 

“ _Excellent. But for safe measure, do contact my secretary and tell it to pass on the news to N’hil’eh and Y’m Ellaeor that I may be slightly late._ ”

 

“ _As you command…_ ”

 

“ _Oh! And one more thing, if you do not mind._ ”

 

“ _Anything, my Lord_.”

 

“ _Have the feeds from forward camera-3 displayed on my personal monitors._ ”

 

“ _As you command._ ” Teth crossed four of it’s appendages before it’s armored torso and loudly chirped, performing the salute of the Tri-Kingdom Aerial Guard. Dlo’Yug returned the gesture before allowing the pilot to cease communications. The Emperor switched on it’s music again to break the ensuing silence. “Kadath Dawn” resumed only to gently fade to a chilling end some forty seconds later, allowing the next track—another of Dlo’s favorite’s, “The Dirge of Xada-Hgla”—to begin with the aggressive thrum of L’gy’hxian string instruments. At almost the same second, the black glass of another one of the Emperor’s monitors suddenly flashed into a miasma of color that quickly resolved itself into an image. With it’s antenna turning bright with satisfaction, Dlo’Yug leaned back and watched as the screen was filled with the scene of the land giving way to the sterilized ocean as the ship passed over. Before long, the terrestrial surface had completely vanished, leaving only a vast field of starlit seawater and the object of Dlo’Yug’s interest: The Pinnacle of Earth. It’s base—rooted in the artificial continent of Suhl-Sihk—was lost to vision over the curve of the Earth, but the greater portion of the tower stood far, far above the horizon. So massive was this single structure that even at a distance of over a hundred miles it looked to be no further than twenty. It was just far enough away from the encroaching ship that the atmosphere and distance had obscured the finer details of the Pinnacle’s curved facade and blurred the rugged edges, making it look much like a statuesque wraith within a cloak of fog. The sky itself seemed to split in two for the tower as it stretched upward—the hazy and nebulous stars and moons framing the flanks of silhouetted form—with it’s sixteen-hundred meter height terminating at the sky’s apex. There, at the Pinnacle’s star reaching peak, were fixed three spires that served as symbolic testaments to the integrity and union that the three Kingdoms of the Aristocratic Order shared.

 

The ship’s hull rattled, and the engines screeched once again as the vessel began to ease downwards, inbound for the docking station at the Pinnacle’s base.Approximately fifteen minutes remained until touchdown, so Dlo’Yug reckoned. It planned on spending that time simply taking in the view in the tiny monitor, and was quite content with doing so to say the least. This has become something of a ritual for the prideful Yuggothian, keeping all sixteen senses locked on that colossal edifice in anticipation until the time came for it to finally set it’s pads on the polished marble floors of the Pinnacle’s extravagant foyer. Ten thousand times Dlo’Yug approached the Pinnacle of Earth, and ten thousand times it savored the feeling.

 

Dlo’Yug leaned it’s gaunt, iron-gray body back, relaxed it’s wings—allowing the misty membranes to drape over it’s six shoulders—and crossed it’s many arms tightly over it’s abdomen. It’s head stretched closer to the screen, antennae turning bright pink with bliss as the image became more distinct. The tower’s bulk became much sharper against the miasma of the Gestalt, and all the thousands of tiny lights (which, to Dlo’Yug, always resembled the Earth’s view of the stars before it’s assimilation into the Gestalt) suddenly sparkled from their places in the Pinnacle’s manifold faces, terraces, balconies, bridges, and spires which spiraled up the structure like the ridges in the shell of a Cambrian mollusk.

 

In truth, the Pinnacle wasn’t anything spectacular in terms of engineering or architecture. For one, it was an amalgam of Yhian, Yuggothian, and Syorian aesthetic (many luminous pillars, windowless battlements, and five-pointed outcroppings) and therefore not entirely original. Beyond that, it was nothing but a tower. A large one at that—the tallest ever to exist on Earth, even dwarfing the temples of R’lyeh—but a tower nonetheless. In fact the Pinnacle was nothing compared to the condos constructed on Yuggoth-567L, and even less compared what squats on planets likeTond, The World of the Seven Suns, and Shaggai IV. Dlo’Yug would never admit it—not to anyone’s countenance—but it knew that the Pinnacle was but a humble little hut compared to what the Gestalt Ethereal really holds, but regardless that “tiny” tower held a special place in Dlo’s heart.

 

To Dlo’Yug, order was everything. Civil order, moral order, cosmic order, any kind of order; order was the backbone and the wings of a universe destined for greatness. Such a universe can only be the Gestalt Ethereal, a realm built specifically to last. Even if all of existence fell prey to entropy over trillions of aeons, Dlo’Yug had faith that the Gestalt would endure till the end of eternity, till the fateful day that Azathoth awakens and snuffs out his own creations. Now, Dlo’Yug was never one to blindly place it’s faith in anything, especially a government. If Dlo’ had to believe in the endurance of the Gestalt, it had to have a solid reason. Dlo’Yug had two: The Tri-Kingdom Aristocratic Order and Hastur, the Yellow King and the highest authority within the Gestalt.

 

Hastur, of course, needs no explanation. The Yellow King of Carcosa, the supreme leader of all ninety-nine galaxies, and the undisputed hero who orchestrated the downfall and the second incarceration of Cthulhu, Hastur is as powerful as he is wise. Though Dlo’Yug owes much of it’s life’s success to the Yellow King’s intervention—and is thus eternally grateful—it is the Aristocracy that fills the Yuggothian with so much pride. For Dlo’Yug the Aristocracy is order made material; a perfect union of voices and laws geared towards the mechanical perfection of it’s domain and forever acting as the most crucial of keystones. Like with any decent government, the three leading figures of the Aristocracy works tirelessly to monitor and assess the state of the Gestalt, all the while issuing decrees and mandates to better solve the scarce, but nonetheless pivotal, civil issues that any of the Aristocracy’s many planets may face. In short, Dlo’s government is little more than just that: a government. With little to discern it from any other under Hastur’s gaze. But regardless, the Tri-Kingdom Aristocratic Order is Dlo’Yug’s home and responsibility, which it gladly shares with it’s fellow kings. For almost exactly twelve-thousand years (The one-hundred and twentieth centennial was only six months away. Dlo’ was appropriately excited for that) Dlo’Yug, N’hil’eh, and Y’m Ellaeor had governed with every righteous intention the three entities could summon, and their efforts were rewarded with longevity. While the Earth bound Aristocracy had flourished, other trans-galactic sovereignties had crumbled under their own cancerous corruption. The Aristocracy survived and thrived, and Dlo’Yug liked to entertain the idea that that was entirely because it and it’s brothers fiercely adhered to the values that every leader needs to maintain a nation.

 

Looking at the Pinnacle of Earth—the imposing metal symbol of the Aristocracy itself—filled Dlo’Yug with assurance. Earth is safe. The Kingdoms are safe. The Gestalt is safe. All because Dlo’Yug remained true to a promise he made a long time ago, that being to recreate Heaven.

 

“GOD” has fallen to his own failure, and in his bloated corpse dwells the remainder of his Fallen Angels. Like the Great Old Ones of days passed, Dlo’Yug was adamant on stitching together the pieces of a rotting creation to the greater good of sentient life. All the Emperor desires is for every denizen to live life in happiness and die without regret or sorrow. Even if it’s success is arguable, the fact that the Pinnacle still stands let’s Dlo’Yug know that it will always have a chance to make things right.

 

Dlo only hoped that the Pinnacle will continue to stand.

 

“ _Touchdown in seven minutes, my lord._ ” Teth’s buzzed through the intercom. “ _Please prepare for mild turbulence._ ”

 

“ _Acknowledged_ ”. Dlo’Yug chirped as it continued watching the tower within the frame of the screen grow nearer. Dlo sighed, internally fancying that in another four weeks it will relive this serene moment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, first I want to point out that I’ve been waiting to post this chapter for, like, forever. Not only because it introduces, Dlo’Yug—one of my favorite OCs—but because I can finally drop a bunch of concepts that expand on the threadbare mythology of the Mi-go (or Yuggothians, whatever). I was actually going to do just that in an aborted story that some of you AO3 readers might be familiar with: “Mushrooms from Yuggoth”. That was going to be a Mythos parody centered around a band of dim witted Yuggothian scientist doing stupid shit on Earth. Despite the comedic tone, I intended on putting forth several ideas that I meant to take somewhat seriously. One of which is the idea that there are multiple Yuggoths, as to explain the real life issue as to what the fuck Yuggoth actually is. Is it Pluto? Or is it some scary, gigantic, black planet way beyond the Kuiper Belt, on the literal edge of the Solar System? For The Age of Darkness, I thought I’d resolve this by saying that the imperialistic Mi-go actually christen every planet they colonize as “Yuggoth”, which in our solar system includes Pluto and the Black Planet (named Yuggoth-568L and Yuggoth-567L, respectively). There was going to be another “Mushrooms from Yuggoth” thing where I depict the Mi-go as being absurdly bureaucratic, including a tendency to assign painfully bland numeric names to everything they touch. You may have noticed that in this chapter. 
> 
> Second: The music that Dlo listens to—“Kadath Dawn”—I actually based on a real album: “Al-Azif” by Benjamin Norman Pierce. This album is… curious, to say the least. All the “songs” sound like utter nonsense, just a chaotic mashup of random noises. It might be possible that it’s legit music played backwards. But in any case, what’s interesting about this is that the album might be an attempt to emulate what alien beings would deem good music, even if all we humans hear is… uh…something that’s not at all music. 
> 
> “Kadath Dawn” in particular is based on three songs from Benny: “Kadath Dawn Pastorale”, “Kadath Noon Fanfare”, and “Kadath Gloaming Fugue”. 
> 
> Here. Luckily this nut is on YouTube. If you want to listen, have at it, but be warned: it’s not for people with good taste in music. 
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLvMMeu45UBeRzy05cefarQk8FqcG_CLT1


	4. Trinity

Before Dlo’Yug stretched the marble floor of the Pinnacle’s lofty foyer, a vast and perfectly smooth slate of lustrous white that gleamed like the milk of Shub-Niggurath. It’s surface was untarnished, and almost completely devoid of color save from that of the hazy reflections at the feet of all the quiet individuals whom skittered or slid to and fro, coming in and out of the shafts that lined the niched walls. Within the floor were rooted a legion of spiraling pillars bridging the white sea to the fan-vaulted ceiling, which seemed impossibly far out of reach at a height of some forty meters. The walls were lined with painted bas reliefs which—as a long held part of Syorian heritage—regaled the history of the three Aristocratic Kingdoms as well as that of the Earth itself, going so far as back as the the late Sapien Era and segueing into the early Ethereal Era, which was, of course, the current era. Sources of illumination came mainly in the form of negligibly dim sunlight filtered through the enormous diamond shaped windows arranged across the foremost wall of the chamber. Each one was etched and stained with the images or sigils of the patron deities of all the mayor Kingdoms. For the Kingdom of Valusia, there was Yig; for Borea, Ithaqua; for N’Kai, Tsathoggua; for Sy-or, Yog-Sothoth; for Yekkub, Uhl-Gamah; for Yuggoth, there was Hastur; and so forth. At the near center of that collection, just above the the hexagonal front door, was a much larger window decorated with the Gestalt’s coat of arms, which was comprised of a vague, eight-armed form (meant to be a generic representation of any given inhabitants of the Gestalt), and in the center of which was stamped Hastur’s Yellow sign, which in turn was orbited by the twelve seals of the twelve governing bodies, with the Aristocracy counted among them.

 

Aside from Dlo’Yug, there were six other Yuggothians, most of whom conversed with each other near the small prism garden at the back of the room, their flashing antenna sending lethargically thrumming bursts of colored lights dancing across the floor, the crystalline plants, and the water fountain behind them. The serenely luminous shapes born of their casual chat fluttered through the branches hanging above their heads and jiggled across the streams of hydrogen monoxide that poured from the flaring hands of the polypous statue poised in mid sway at the center of the garden, making it look as if both plants and fountain were playfully echoing the “words” of the Yuggothians. Adding to hypnotic display were a quartet of custodian worms that happened to be cleaning the fountain’s pool. Their pulpy bodies occasional flashed with bright incandescence that, like the signals from the more complex Yuggothians, filled the air with neon hues.

 

Nearby, a duo of non-fungoid beings stood and were engaged in their own exchange, albeit one devoid of light and colors. The two barrel-shaped, radial creatures—as Syorian natives—instead talked via a mesmerizing vocabulary of low or high pitched fluting and whistling, effectively and inadvertently creating a kind of alien music that echoed across the walls.

 

Gliding across the chamber on six gently pumping legs, a rhythmic tapping following it’s footsteps, Dlo’Yug relished the peacefulness. He absorbed the atmosphere, all the while hoping that no one will immediately notice it’s entrance. For the universally revered Emperor, being able to walk into any room without being met by incessant praises and repetitive uses of “Hail the Emperor all mighty!” from awestruck commoners was a rarity. In fact, ever since the “miraculous” civil reformation of T’yul-Las III of A.E. 0184 (Which Dlo’Yug was largely responsible for) being treated as anything short of a divine entity was a luxury Dlo had been robbed of. Any peasant can easily submerse themselves in a fantasy of being adored and feared by anyone with a pulse, but once one gains such a status it very, very quickly becomes tiresome. The copious responsibility of being the leader of several planets was to be expected, as was the ensuing publicity, but when one is suddenly hammered on a damn near hourly basis with “Hail the Emperor all mighty!” one starts to feel less like “the Emperor all mighty!” and more like some gilded eidolon that everyone mindlessly drools over. True respect and adoration soon starts to look like a very shallow sensation while the irritating feeling of being patronized begins to set in. The only two entities who ever bother to treat Dlo’Yug as an equal were N’hil’eh and Y’m Ellaeor. For everyone else, it was the same thing: “Hail the Emperor all mighty! Hail the Emperor all mighty! Hail the Emperor all mighty!”

 

It would be a lie if Dlo’Yug ever said it didn’t appreciate the constant celebration—because it did, in the end—but it was almost like receiving a gift that Dlo not only had no use for, but proved more burdensome than beneficial. Like a dessert containing an ingredient Dlo was mildly allergic too. Was it so much to ask if someone could just casually ask how it’s day was? Or perhaps engage in a real, down-to-Yuggoth conversation? All in all, simply treat Dlo’Yug like a commoner?

 

Sometimes Dlo wondered if it thought that way because, at one point, Dlo was a commoner. It came to power through somewhat unorthodox means. Dlo was often loath to regale the details of it’s ascension, but the short version of the story is that Dlo was not a true emperor, hereditarily speaking. Most of Yuggoth’s past leaders were born and raised specifically for the purpose of becoming the Emperor, but not Dlo’Yug. It was born to be an ambassador; an ambassador who would later wipe it’s gh-ie’ludch with tradition and boldly declare itself Yuggoth’s chosen patriarch. It was prepared for everything except “Hail the Emperor all mighty!”

 

Before Dlo’Yug could makes it’s way to the flight shaft, one among the cluster of Yuggothians disengaged and immediately took notice of the passing Emperor, it’s antenna turning a vivid yellow in gleeful surprise. “ _Hail the Emperor all mighty!_ ” the individual exclaimed in a shrill drone, as it crossed it’s arms in salute. The other five echoed the excruciatingly familiar greeting, likewise executing the salute in perfect unison.

 

Dlo’Yug tried not to cringe. “ _At ease_.” It dismissed.

 

The larger specimens filed out, their palpitating antennae still aglow, while the smaller one remained fixed, regarding Dlo’Yug with with an amusingly dopey yellow stare. In any other case this might have come off as weird, but of course Dlo had the honor of knowing this tiny creature personally. It’s name was Io-Luico, and it served as Dlo’Yug’s secretary. Like anyone occupying the role of a bureaucrat, Io wore the body of a Variant-55-XU, albeit one that was inexplicably smaller than normal. In Io’s case, it was was less than half the size of of Dlo itself, which doesn’t say much since Dlo’Yug is actually a few heads taller than the average Yuggothian. The Emperor could only imagine just how terrifyingly imposing it must look from the perspective of little Io. Like the 501-T’s, 55-XU’s have several arms, but unlike the 501-T’s Io’s arms ended in multi-fingered paws and were kept neatly tucked against it’s thin abdomen when not in use. And unlike any other office-bound example of it’s race, Io had exaggerated antenna that curled at the tips and a glaringly bright exoskeleton, decked with several shades of yellow and green. If Dlo’Yug was ever one to openly complement people, it would admit that it found Io’s look kinda cute.

 

“ _Good evening, Emperor_.” The secretary buzzed almost coyly. “ _You’re colors are looking quite well today. I take that as a sign your trip was comfortable?_ ”

 

Beaming at Io’s genial but not too reverent advance, Dlo replied “ _Oh, it was quite pleasurable, if a tad dull. Can’t expect a flight to be anything less, though. Thanks for asking. How has the day treated you so far?_ ”

 

Io shrugged, turning stone grey to show it’s indifference. “ _It’s a day, my lord. Like yesterday. But I’m happy, nonetheless. The inquiry returns this week have been merciful, at least._ ”

 

“ _Good, good. I could say the same for myself I suppose. The day’s been less eventful than I had anticipated. It’s sort of left me wanting, to be honest. Anyhow,_ _I trust you passed on my message?_ ” Dlo’Yug inquired.

 

Io bowed, absolutely beaming. “ _Yes, my Lord. Lord N’hil’eh and General Y’m Ellaeor are aware of your tardiness._ ” It slowly gestured towards the ceiling, indicating the uppermost conference chamber several hundred floors above. “ _They are patiently awaiting your arrival._ ”

 

“ _Did you make sure to keep them comfortable? Did you offer any beverages? Entertainment?_ ”

 

“ _I assure you, my Lord, that has all been taken care of. I saw to it myself_.”

 

“ _Very good. You are most reliable, Io. I’m afraid I do not inform you of that enough.”_ The little Yuggothian th turned pink over this. “ _For your troubles, I’ll consider giving you a raise. Maybe even an extra holiday. I’ll talk to your direct supervisor about this when it’s convenient, but in the meantime you keep up the excellent work._ ”

 

“ _Thank you, my Lord_.” Io gushed, absentmindedly stroking it’s antenna with one of it’s smaller appendages. “ _But I’m afraid I cannot accept your reward. I firmlybelieve that operating directly under Your Majesty is more than rewarding enough_.”

 

Before Dlo’Yug could offer a witty rejoinder in response to Io’s flattery, Io spoke up again, it’s whole body suddenly spasming with embarrassment. “ _I almost forgot! My Lord, your brothers requested that you call them as soon as you enter the Pinnacle’s premises_.”

 

Dlo’s antennae stiffened in inquisitiveness. “ _Indeed? Well, that’s quite odd. Are they not able to wait until I appear in person?_ ”

 

Io shrugged it’s wings, it’s colors indicating it was just as baffled as the Emperor. “ _Your guess is as good as mine. But if it happens to clarify anything, it was the General who requested this. He…sounded quite agitated._ ”

 

Lighting up with understanding, Dlo’Yug droned in silent laughter. “ _Y’m Ellaeor, eh?_ ” Dlo’Yug stroked the cilia beneath it’s neck, gazing at the water fountain over the secretary’s shoulders. Understandably, every time it thought about that uptight amphibian, Dlo always found itself eyeing the nearest source of water. Much like how pentagrams always reminded it of N’hil’eh or how dirt brought to mind Yig and his underground Kingdom. “ _Good Ghroth, what’s he moaning about now?_ ”

 

Io turned a light pink with impish humor as it buzzed “ _Well, I would never want to assume anything. He didn’t quite state anything outright; merely ordered me to pass on his will and refused any further conversation…_ ”

 

“ _But_?” Dlo’Yug had a pretty good idea what the secretary was about to say, and prepared itself to playfully chide the old Deep One when he finally got around to speaking to him.

 

“ _It’s probably a coincidence that his demeanor changed when I told him you would be late…_ ”

 

“ _Ah, Indeed. Always a stickler for punctuality, that General. Can’t say I blame him. He’s only doing his job. Well, Io, I’m afraid I can’t keep the brothers waiting any longer, lest Elleaor’s fins get any tighter._ ”

 

“ _Before you go, my lord…_ ” Io said, reaching into one of the pockets lining it’s exoskeleton. “ _You can borrow my mobile communicator. It’s a fair walk from here to the nearest extension station, but I thought you may want to—as you suggested—cut as much time as possible. You can talk with your brothers while you make your route._ ” The secretary produced the item in question, a compact sphere of clear plastic and titanium, covered in small screens and touch sensitive nodes.

 

“ _How thoughtful of you, Io._ ” Dlo’Yug beamed, accepting the communicator. A quick tap to the device’s upper hemisphere activated it’s magnetic motors, which immediately began interacting with the metal infused into the Emperor’s exoskeleton. Dlo’Yug dropped it’s claw, leaving the communicator levitating before him as if it were a robotic insect. A quick wave of it’s claw sent the device into a slow but wobbly orbit around Dlo’Yug’s multi-limbed body, where it was likely to remain until the Emperor commanded the device to do otherwise. “ _I deeply appreciate this, and…_ ” Dlo dipped back as the device passed too close to it’s forward-most antennae, briefly distorting it’s seventh sense. It kinda tickled. _“I shall return it to you as soon as it’s within my ability.”_

 

Io bowed, looking quite elated, as usual. “ _Don’t stress over it, my Lord._ ” The secretary began to skitter off, giving it’s Emperor a sidelong glance and another swiftly executed salute. “ _I’ll be sending my best of wishes._ ”

 

“ _As will I._ ” Dlo’Yug said, returning the salute. With that, they parted; Io slipping back into it’s office and Dlo’Yug padding up the ramp leading to the second floor and beyond, the device still following it like a hungry To-Chue. While the Emperor waited to enter a spot where radio reception was decent, it reflected on the exchange with Io. Being spoken to as anything other than the Emperor—by anyone other than a mindless suck-up—was quite rare. Dlo liked that. Io, as sycophantic as it may be, at least satisfied Dlo’s desire for a even a somewhat normal conversation. Anything other than “Hail the Emperor almighty!” was nothing short of a blessing.

 

The day was on a good start.

 

 

… … …

 

The main gradient spiraled up the height of the Pinnacle in a shallow slope. It largely reminded within the tower’s confines—staying between the glass epidermis and the stone labyrinth at the core—but a certain few stretches skewered outside the walls and wove through one terrace to another as the ramp continued up, hanging over the city-laden Earth as an extra appendage. One of these sections—the first of six—was situated between the twentieth and the twenty-sixth floors. It was here Dlo’Yug found itself treading. Being outside, the Emperor was rewarded with a view it rarely ever had the chance of fully appreciating; that of the Pinnacle’s outlying cities, the ocean beyond, and—even more uncommon—the Earth’s four layered orbital ring. The latter was a commonplace but nonetheless remarkable bit of astral engineering; A massive commercial ring-station composed of Yuggoth’s own tok’l metal, which was well over thirty-eight thousand kilometers in overall diameter, almost three times the girth of the planet it encircled. From space, it was a spectacular to behold, if one could image billions of incandescent orbs and curved bands of metal skirting the Earth, but from the surface of said planet, the ring was quite unimpressive. To Dlo’Yug’s eye it was little more than a hazy stripe erupting from one horizon and arching across the sky into the opposite. The city was just as dull, if slightly less so. Unofficially named “Pinnacle City” by some unimaginative bugger, it was really anything but. With a few hundred domed structures and a score of brightly lit tarmacs, the city served primarily as the headquarters for the Tri-Kingdom Guard and the squatting grounds for the public revenue houses, as well as a vast dormitory for the senators. The buildings stretched from the Pinnacle’s immediate base, along the flat surface of Suhl-Sihk, and came to an abrupt stop at the edge of the Jholle Sea. Between Suhl-Sihk and the nearest natural continent—Sly’gho Theth—stretched the Sliver Band Bridge, a great strip of chrome plated concrete and obsidian that traversed the ocean like a dimly glowing D’hole fossil.

 

“ _Input MC Code 559E683588. ID: ‘General Feliktakar Det Y’m Elleaor_ ’” Dlo’Yug commanded the communicator as it lazily orbited it’s body. The device chirped once in affirmation before it started briefly humming. Seconds passed and the device pinged, indicating the recipient had answered the call.

 

“ _You’re late._ ” A deep, gargled voice growled from the other end of the line, sounding more vexed than crossed, as predicted. It was Y’m Elleaor being his crabby self, and he was speaking his native tongue. Being an anthropoid, the Deep One had absolutely no means of speaking the Yuggothian language or any of it’s variants, so Dlo’Yug was the one forced to learn how to speak in Elleaor’s barking dialect. It didn’t mind, but it did have trouble every so often grasping some of the finer elements of Deep One speech. Dlo’Yug could tell Y’m Elleaor was agitated, but to what degree the Emperor could not determine from the anthropoid’s tone or word choice alone. But as far as basic grammar and vocabulary goes, Dlo knew more than enough to understand it’s brother, and as such deliver an appropriate response.

 

“ _What?”_ Dlo’Yug teased. “ _I’m late? Why I had no idea. I thought I was a day ahead of schedule. My, isn’t that strange?_ ” The Emperor tried to lace it’s voice modulator with that humorous quality bipeds called “sarcasm”, but it was very uncertain—even doubtful—that it was at all successful.

 

“ _You’re late._ ” Y’m Elleaor repeated curtly. “ _Care to enlighten as to why?_ ”

 

“ _Does it matter?_ ” Dlo’Yug suggested, but knowing the Deep One would put up a rather convincing argument, it continued. “ _The ferry can only move so fast, you know. Plus my meeting at the revenue center was prolonged for another forty minutes.”_

 

“ _You were talking to the secretary again, weren’t you?_ ”

 

“ _Indeed. But what’s so wrong with chatting with the staff every so often? You must remember, brother, that us Fungi like to communicate. Because, as you may guess, we have vocal apparatuses that we are quite fond of using_.” Dlo attempted sarcasm again, still unsure. “ _I mean, it’s quite possible you were aware of that, but as your best friend, I…_ ”

 

“ _Are these really your excuses? Not even excuses, actually, but some kind of sad attempt at humor? You are joking right? You know I expect better from you._ ”

 

“ _Brother, look, I understand you what you expect. But in all seriousness though, there’s no use in getting worked up over this. Yes, I know that, as Emperor, I’m supposed to set a good example for the people—and if you know me, then you should know I would want nothing less—but the people aren’t witnessing this, so I believe I can relax just a little. I have a comparatively open schedule today, so I can afford a few delays here and there, granted that I don’t indulge myself too much. And I know your plans are just as sparse as mine…_ ”

 

“ _I think that’s irrelevant at the moment._ ” Y’m Elleaor groaned. “ _But I would be naive to assume you’re going to concede any time soon. Correct?_ ”

 

“ _Indeed_.” Dlo’Yug chimed, antennae going yellow with playful snugness.

 

Y’m sighed. “ _You’re a real pain sometimes. Just be up here within the next hour and I’ll forget that this ever happened. By the way, N’hil’eh wants to talk to you, so I’ll pass you over to him…excuse me, it. Whatever. Anyways, it’s been nice hearing from you again.”_

 

“ _Likewise my friend. I’ll see you in a few._ ” Dlo’Yug said, parting. Chuckling to itself during the few seconds it took for N’hil’eh to receive the call, Dlo’Yug lingered on the last thing the Deep One General said. Of course, Y’m Elleaor always sounds as if he’s speaking to the very last person he wants to hold a conversation with (really, the only beings he ever regards with anything more than than a snarky or sour attitude are Dagon and Hydra) but Dlo knew he cared about his fellow patriarchs, regardless of wether he acknowledges it or not. From someone like Y’m Elleaor, it’s hard to gain any respect, much less any attention whatsoever, so hearing him say “It’s been nice hearing from you” or anything like that is, in an odd way, very moving. Dlo’Yug always saw Y’m as the crabby grandfather of the trio; never smiles, always has to complain about something N’hil’eh or Dlo are supposedly doing wrong, and clings unrelentingly to what he considers “traditional values”, which entails strict discipline (with which Dlo’Yug couldn’t agree more) and a feverish devotion to the patron deities, as to assure the Gestalt’s continued existence. In Y’m Elleaor’s case this meant an undying loyalty to Dagon and Hydra. Dlo’Yug couldn’t understand why the general would believe that the fate of existence was upon the shoulders of the Eldest Deep Ones instead the Yellow King, but it’s not like the matter is entirely relevant. Truth be told, the Kingdom of the Deep is a very insignificant addition to the Aristocracy, and contributes very little to their overall power, except maybe some useful pieces of underwater military equipment and weapons. The only reason why that Kingdom was ever initiated in the first place was because of it’s ties to the immensely powerful Kingdom of R’lyeh, but that was later cut when Hastur imprisoned Cthulhu, and the Deep Ones were forced to forsake the Great Dreamer as their god. Dlo’Yug had been under the impression that the reason why the Deep Ones are still part of the Aristocracy to this day is because N’hil’eh had became quite fond of Y’m Elleaor’s cranky antics. Frankly, Dlo had to admit that it too had also developed a connection to the general. Plus, the old frog is wise enough to offer some valuable input when making tactical decisions during wartime, but his usefulness ends there. Dlo’Yug, in all it’s courtesy, never had the heart to tell him that. The really unfortunate thing, however, is that after spending millennia as a part of one the strongest governing bodies in Deep One history has given Y’m Elleaor an inflated ego. Not only does he believe he’s valuable, but is even convinced he’s in some ways superior to both his brothers, who are both thousands of years older than him with the added benefit of having far, far more general knowledge under their belts. Hence Y’m Elleaor’s tendency to “correct” his brothers. But, nonetheless, he attempts to do good for the Aristocrats by harshly judging them for inane things, and being a creature of order, Dlo’Yug had to appreciate that. After all, it suspected that that was just the only helpful method Y’m Elleaor knew, after having spent the later half it’s life as a soldier in the Abyssal Legions. Y’m Elleaor wasn’t a bad person. Just a little stern.

 

N’hil’eh, on the other hand, was an entirely different case.

 

A brief but wildly fluttering whistle issued from the floating communicator as the device rounded around Dlo’s flank and stopped almost directly in front of it’s head, prompting the Emperor to stop. Though the piping seemed artificial—being something so intricate that Dlo’Yug couldn’t easily replicate it—it was undoubtedly a natural voice, one belonging to the Emperor’s dear friend N’hil’eh. A Deep One’s language is complex, but easy enough to understand, but in sharp contrast the Syorian tongue was very different from anything else Dlo’Yug had ever experienced prior to making contact with N’hil’eh’s kind for the first time. It’s musical and enticing, but does not sound like true speech at first glance. Dlo’Yug knows the language, but only in the most threadbare way. It took the Yuggothian a moment to mentally piece together the short lived storm of noise into something it could understand, and when it was finished it realized that N’hil’eh had just exclaimed “ _Dlo’Yug, my good friend, I’m so glad you’re here_.” The Syorian lord’s tone, unable to convey emotion on it’s own, was flat, but of course the words were enough to let Dlo’Yug know that it’s friend was sincerely happy. If it were meeting N’hil’eh in person, Dlo would be able to read absolute exuberance in the way the Syorian’s wings and tentacles curled and flapped, but that’s not the case now. Dlo would have to make this awkward conversation work without fully understanding it’s friend’s full range of feelings.

 

“ _It’s very good to be here. I’m looking forward to seeing you._ ” Dlo’Yug buzzed. Unlike itself, N’hil’eh could easily understand the Yuggothian no matter what language it spoke or how. Unsurprising, since beings with such an advanced method of communication would be inherently fluent in the languages of over sixty thousand terrestrial species. “ _Tell me, please, how goes your day? I trust it has treated you as well as it has treated me?_ ”

 

“ _Oh, Dlo, you have no idea_.” N’hil’eh fluted. “ _It was fantastic. My escorts—such gentle-creatures—treated me to the best dish of Ton-Mourafan Rghuuul while we were in transit. By Eihort’s great name, it really made my day._ ”

 

“ _Rghuuul_?” Dlo’Yug inquired. “ _That’s the Croll-Fiddst soup with the fermented Voormi shreds and… and what was that other ingredient?_ ”

 

“ _O’iol-Juyrath’Ni. This particular sample was actually a little different, however. It had an extra sprinkling of clyktii._ ”

 

“ _Indeed_.” Dlo’Yug chuckled, pausing to register N’hil’eh’s words. The Syorian made no protests, but patiently waited. It understood that Dlo’Yug had a bit of an impediment when it came to certain foreign languages, and was more than willing to slow itself down for the Yuggothian’s sake. That’s only one of the hundreds of Ni’hil’eh’s more appealing character traits. Dlo’Yug continued “ _You and your sweet tooth, Brother. Should I assume you also had a healthy dose of w’hj’cu on the side?”_

 

“ _I would if it were available._ ” N’hil’eh probably meant to say that in a jocular manner, but it ended up sounding vaguely somber in it’s monotone. “ _I’ll get some on the return trip, though. In the meantime, I’m enjoying a few exotic beverages courtesy of that lovely assistant of yours. I have a few new drinks on standby for you to try. Still cold._ ”

 

“ _Like what? For the love of Ghroth, don’t let it be another Throkian specialty.”_

 

“ _Oh heavens no! No, I think all three of us learned after that last mishap with the ‘Ghoul’s Champagne’.”_ Dlo could hear Y’m Elleaor grunting his agreements in the background. “ _These blends, I believe, come from New Pnakotis.”_

 

“ _I had no idea the Yithians were inclined to such a culture. I find that amusing.”_

 

“ _Like I said, I’m not sure. But the Great Race have their individuals that like to step outside of their traditions, for sure. In any case, we have drinks and they’re damn good._ ”

 

“ _Save me a single glass, but no more. Remember, we have important matters to discuss.”_

 

“ _Mildly important._ ” N’hil’eh corrected. Another favorable trait: N’hil’eh was much more mellow than Dlo’Yug, almost to the point of looking like absolute irresponsibility. Though some of N’hil’eh’s practices were questionable, Dlo’Yug wasn’t ready to call it’s friend irresponsible. “ _Last I checked, none of the districts were in any real crisis, much less in any civil or economic distress._ ”

 

“ _True, but I still like to avoid having my senses impaired, lest we end up doing something incredibly stupid, like establishing a universal holiday dedicated to, I don’t know, skipping over Martian volcanic fissures while balancing a box of dirt on your head and reciting the entire Yekkubian pledge of allegiance_.”

 

The communicator’s speakers then boomed with a thin, shrill noise that was the Syorian equivalent of a laugh, with which Dlo felt helplessly compelled to join. “ _You crack me up, Dlo’Yug. Gods, imagine how sore Hastur would be if we did that. He would hit the roof!_ ” N’hil’eh guffawed, a few stay notes of wild chittering punctuating his flat-toned words.

 

Dlo’Yug flinched at the reckless usage of it’s master’s name, and from the strained silence that cut off it’s own laughter N’hil’eh could tell it had better stop as well. Even if it was only a joke, it was an unspoken taboo to speak of the Yellow King with anything less than reverence. Hastur had eyes and ears all over the Gestalt, on every planet and in every city. If he ever had even the slightest hunch that any being spoken of him with anything that could be remotely considered disrespect Hastur would immediately have said trespasser damned to the depths of Lake Hali. No trial and no sentence. Just a very quick yet very slow death. “ _N’hil’eh, my friend_.” Dlo’Yug warned. “ _Please be careful with how you wield our Master’s name. He is the Magnum Innominandum. I need not stress the importance of maintaining your subservience to him_.”

 

A faint clicking noise signaled that N’hil’eh was somewhat in doubt about it’s friend’s claim, but in the end the Syorian was smart enough to trust in it’s brother. “ _You’re right. I’m sorry for overstepping_.” After a pause, it added “ _These drinks, you know? They’ve got me a little loopy_.”

 

Dlo’Yug snickered as it pictured N’hil’eh saying that with the mobile communicator in one hand, a full glass in another, and a drowsy yet innocent look twisting it’s eyestalks. Yet another thing Dlo’Yug loved about the star-headed crinoid: It’s sense of humor was always enough to dispel any tension, no matter how thick. “ _It’s okay, brother. You’re not a pillar of salt yet, so that’s a very good sign.”_

 

Again, N’hil’eh beamed with wonderfully shrill laughter that compelled the Yuggothian to once again share. Dlo’Yug, to it’s surprise, could even hear Y’m Elleaor struggling to repress a giggle.

 

“ _Anyhow_ ,” Dlo’Yug continued. “ _You just reminded me that I have to stop by the chapel for a few minutes before I head to the conference chamber._ ”

 

In a short change of mood that was more than expected, Y’m Elleaor, clearly fuming about the meeting being delayed further, shouted some Yhian profanity that Dlo’Yug was wont to understand before saying “ _Are you serious? How much longer do we have to wait?_ ”

 

Before Dlo’Yug could fire back, N’hil’eh intervened, gently reminding Y’m Elleaor “ _Now, my brother, you must have patience. Don’t you think restraint should be a crucial trait for someone of your standing?_ ”

 

The Deep One grumbled back with “ _My patience only goes so far!_ ”

 

N’hil’eh was about to whistle another defense before Dlo’Yug decided to wedge it’s opinion back into the argument. “ _N’hil’eh, thank you for the assist, but I wouldn’t want to trouble you with our squabble._ ” Dlo’Yug assured. “ _Y’m, brother, you need to relax. Really. I’m entitled to pay tribute to my god just as you are entitled to pay tribute to yours, agreed? I do not think you would be very happy if I denied you the opportunity to thank Dagon for your blessings, right?”_

 

N’hil’eh, apparently backing off, uttered a low whistle that was it’s equivalent of “Good point”, while Y’m Elleaor remained in stark silence. Without even seeing the look on the amphibian’s jowls, Dlo’Yug already knew Y’m was wearing his famous “Pout of Defeat”, knowing well that the Yuggothian Emperor was right. Y’m Elleaor was a very pious individual, almost to a disconcerting degree, who did not take kindly to his own faith being used against him, but he was still reasonable enough to know when a valid point was made. “ _You…you are correct…brother.”_ Y’m Elleaor admitted. “ _I would not like that._ ”

 

“ _So I can go to the chapel, then?_ ” Dlo’Yug inquired, not really caring what the answer was.

 

“ _Fine_.”

 

“ _Excellent! I will not take long, brothers. That I promise._ ”

 

“ _Do what you must at your own leisure, my friend_.  _I’ll wait as long as I need, and I’ll even keep your beverage cold all the while._ ” N’hil’eh chirped, ever the patient one.

 

As if to hammer in the radical difference between himself and his Syorian comrade, Y’m Elleaor growled “ _If you keep us waiting any more than I’ll go out of my way to make sure your drink is warm. Pass on my regards to Hastur if you successfully make contact with him.”_

 

“ _I will. I never utter a prayer without keeping you and N’hil’eh in mind. Besides, I need to pray for you to start smiling more, Y’m Elleaor._ ” Dlo’Yug jabbed. It was about ninety percent sure that smiles connote happiness for anthropoids.

 

With just a trace of true mirth, the Deep One chuckled “ _I’ll see you soon._ ” N’hil’eh was barely able to whistle a semi-cheerful “ _Goodbye_!” before the Y’m ended the call. 

 

Silence followed. Soon after it was gracefully shattered by the slowly ascending sound of a thin wailing, like the cries of newborn b’hole, dancing over the Pinnacle’s terraces on a unexpected gust of midnight wind. With the fluidity of a snow flurry, the sound came and went, came and went, fading in and out of audible range.

 

Twisting it’s head all the way upwards, Dlo’Yug traced the sound to it’s origins. Along the edges of the balconies and windows of the higher floors sprouted several hundred clusters of pinkish tubes and buds, all perforated with little holes and channels through which the wind snaked through. Whistlers, as the pink sprouts were unofficially called. They were one of the few exterior decorations left to the designs of the administrators, who apparently had little more to do on their vacation days than grow the noisy plants and fix them within the vicinity of their offices. On a fair day, when the wind is blowing at a little below twenty miles an hour, the whistlers were quite pleasant to listen to, but when a nightly windstorm was brewing, they sounded more like crying ghoul. Not to say that the sound was unpleasant, but it was much too clamorous. It distracted Dlo’Yug from the scenery.

 

Looking further up—beyond the blocky protrusions of the middle floors, which Dlo’Yug could easily see past with fourth-dimensional vision—the three spires that topped the Pinnacle loomed small and distant in the heavens, shadowed fingers dragging across slowly moving stars. Just beneath that was the rim of deep windows that peered from the outermost walls of the conference chambers. Therein waited the other patriarchs, one most likely drinking itself silly while the other grumbled about it.


	5. RT0104

_“How long has it been since we heard his voice?_

_Since we’ve seen his somber eyes,_

_Since he made his final choice?”_

_—Unknown_

 

 

 

 

 

 

On it’s vast wings Dlo’Yug sailed the column of cold air spiraling up the Pinnacle’s central flight shaft from the bottomless pit below, rocketing past a dozen stories per second. Before the Emperor could even get comfortable in it’s preferred flight position, it had already passed floors one-hundred forty through one-hundred sixty. The chapel was on floor two-hundred fifty two, so Dlo’Yug expected the trip from the lowermost portions of the great tower to there to last, all in all, no more than a minute. If it wished, it could easily take the shaft all the way to the topmost floor and arrive there in just six minutes, but Dlo’Yug had already asserted it’s intentions. Whether Hastur expected it’s subject’s intrusion or not, it was Dlo’Yug’s duty to report to the Gestalt’s King at every chance it received.

 

Densely carpeting the walls of the vast cylindrical chamber were thousands of yawning openings of various shapes and sizes, each leading to a different wing of the Pinnacle’s outer layers. In the rust colored spaces between the gates sprawled an intricate system of claw-like branches and arches, each suited with with pulsing veins of black lights. Each unique tangle of curves was used to indicate where each gate led as well as directing the traveler to it’s desired destination, be it within the immediate vicinity or not. There were thousands of gates, but only one among them was the entrance to the chapel, so even if the Emperor had traversed the shaft millions of times it could never remember exactly where it’s destination was located. Dlo’Yug made short work of interpreting the dark violet lights, reading dozens of thrumming patterns per second as it flew higher.

 

Dlo’Yug almost missed it, but eventually the Yuggothian spotted the chapel’s gate and promptly steered it’s mass towards it. It glided past the unlit threshold and into the serpentine corridors, it’s own bioluminescent glare winking and tossing dim colors across the curved, obsidian walls as it darted through. Seconds later, the tunnel sharply turned downwards, immediately thereafter expanding into a vast funnel that opened up within the roof of a spacious and scarcely lit chamber.

 

Dlo’Yug unfolded it’s second pair of wings, abruptly dragging it’s momentum to a slow drop just as it came within a few meters of hitting the tiled floor. As it’s six feet, making only the the smallest of sounds, gently touched the stone surface of the monolithic pedestal at the empty chamber’s center, the Emperor stretched it’s four wings to their maximum extent, creating a fine flower of gray and violet above it’s tightly curled, multi-limbed form. The hazy petals—each twice the length of Dlo’s body—slowly reached skyward and eased back down to wrap around the Emperor’s form.

 

“ _Hastur, my King…_ ” Dlo droned in the Carcosaian dialect. “ _I humbly beseech your holiness for an audience._ ” Dlo’Yug’s buzzing voice, like a signal coming from the greatest depths of the twentieth-dimensional abyss, fluttered across the stagnant, dust laden atmosphere and echoed, the last lingering syllable being repeated like a damaged recording before fading into absolute silence. Only the pedestal was lit, being accompanied by a liquid nimbus of iridescent light that pranced and bubbled around the pedestal, every few minutes leaving behind a few sparkling speckles that lasted a few seconds before sputtering to death. Otherwise, the chamber was completely dark. It was like being in the incalculably vast fields of outer space again, a singularity of light and life merely drifting in the middle of infinite black. Complimenting the emptiness was a deep cold that pervaded the whole chamber. For the Yuggothian, it was not only a pleasant reminder of the aether’s frigid vacuum, but of the soothing midnight weather of 567L. The temperature reminded Dlo’Yug of it’s younger days, when it used to casually stroll aside the gurgling black rivers of Yuggoth, amid gently falling flurries of frozen xenon, shining ever so slightly in the starlight like a tortured soul on the brink of sweet oblivion. Dlo’Yug felt at ease, just as anyone should when entering the meditation vault of the Pinnacle’s chapel.

 

The orbiting globule of light slowed and stopped in front of Dlo’s white glowing antennae. The sprite’s nebulous, ever-changing form sputtered and swayed where it levitated, shooting off a few sparks that died out of existence as soon as they bounced off the Yuggothian’s near metallic skin. As Dlo’Yug watched the globule with it’s curiosity piqued, the colors changed rapidly, flickering from one bright hue to another like a crazed message that the Yuggothian was unprepared to understand. The light then assumed a lustrous yellow pallor, thereafter extending three tendrils of seething electricity, mimicking a particular sigil that Dlo’Yug knew very well.

 

“ _I have seen the Yellow Sign_.” Dlo’Yug buzzed reverently. The ball of yellow energy then burst, a potent but short lived shockwave gracing Dlo’Yug’s forward most sensors with a pleasant sensation that bordered on erotic. With the globule gone, the Emperor was left in total darkness, but a new feeling began to settle in; something so vague as to be almost nonexistent but undoubtedly omnipotent. Faint yet vast, it consumed the whole meditation chamber, sinking into Dlo’Yug flesh with the grace of water grasping the porous being of a Yekkubian house mite. At the same instant, a light seemed to gradually step out of the darkness, several meters in front of Dlo’s bowing form.

 

The presence was Dlo’Yug’s King, the true reason for it’s humble existence and it’s presence within the holy grounds of the Ethereal chapel. The distant presence was the inconceivable, amalgamated thoughts of Lord Hastur, the King in Yellow, and the light was his listening ear, graciously awaiting Dlo’Yug’s unworthy voice.

 

Dlo felt the urge to approach the light, and thus it obeyed, stepping off the pedestal and venturing forth. Doing otherwise, so Dlo’Yug thought, would have been a direct affront to the Yellow King as well as it’s own sense of loyalty. Padding closer, Dlo’Yug stretched it’s utility limbs to it’s sides—a gesture to signify it’s willingness to submit—and knotted it’s smaller communication limbs in prayer. Once in front of the all-consuming mass of yellow radiance, Dlo’Yug lowered it’s body and let the light wash over it’s comparatively minuscule frame, drowning it’s own bleak, metallic colors in the heavenly shade of a young star.

 

“ _Lord Hastur,_ ” Dlo chirped as the light began to dwindle, disclosing the body at it’s source. “ _It is an honor to serve you as your chosen child and to be the hands of you or your most gracious will. I rule the Tri-Kingdom Aristocratic Order and it’s composing star systems by and only by your laws, and thus I am the vessel for your incontrovertible authority. I bid you, sire, give me your commandments for this newborn month, so that I may better your Kingdoms; your perfect creation, the Gestalt Ethereal._ ”

 

The light died like the setting suns beneath the waters of Hali, and in it’s stead brooded the sacred effigy of Hastur, a great statue of the blackest stone carved in the near perfect likeness of Carcosa’s king. Tentacles tipped with polished blades and scalloped wings dressed a slender, pulpy body, scattered about in a complex pattern that would have made no sense to an individual unaccustomed to beholding a Great Old One’s shape. Gaping slits, rugged quills, and irregularly shaped plates of armor composed a majority of the bodily structure, and gave the overall impression of a infinitely deep mural that far exceeded the artistic allure of the Syorian bas reliefs. From thin cracks all along the statute’s bulk trickled a yellow glow akin to that of molten lead, the only thing that allowed the effigy to have any visible shape to eyes requiring light. For Dlo’Yug, a being capable of seeing in pitch darkness, no light was necessary for seeing, but it did make the experience a little more glorious.

 

Hastur’s statue, like all the others squatting in the dark corners of the chapel, was there solely to establish an anchor for his influence. Through the statues, which served him as his own communicator of sorts, the Yellow King could hear, see, and address those within the Pinnacle. As such, the King’s worshipers could also hold communion here and send their prayers directly to Hastur. But only if he is willing to listen, of course. The King in Yellow has far better things to do than listen to mortals, much less speak to them, so only a very small percentage of the time can Dlo’Yug ever expect to receive a response. In fact, save for the four or five special instances in the sixteen thousand year history of Dlo’Yug worshipping Hastur, the Emperor had never received a direct communication. At best he merely received subtle suggestions that manifested in Dlo’s mind as sudden urges, such as the need to pass a certain law or intervene with a particular nation.

 

However, today was different.

 

Dlo’Yug could feel Hastur burrowing into it’s head, and could hear—and physically feel—a voice calmly and slowly dripping into it’s neurons, leaking into the ocean of it’s higher thought. It’s body locked and went cold, both out of primal fear and ecstasy. One can never feel the deathly influence of a Great Old One penetrate a realm so sensitive as the mind and not find oneself quaking in absolute terror, regardless of how much of a privilege it may seem to be.

 

One claw shot forward and made contact with the statue, where it stayed and channeled the abysmal cold of Hastur’s essence into Dlo’s body. The Yellow King, against all expectations, was trying to communicate with his servant.

 

“Iä. Iä. Iä.” Dlo’Yug chanted, divine joy forcing it’s voice to crack. “ _Tell me your command, my Yellow King_.”

 

An onslaught crashed down upon Dlo’Yug’s conscious, shocking the Yuggothian into temporarily paralysis. Thousands of words and thoughts boiled in it’s head until, very suddenly, it all simultaneously dissolved and resolved into a single, simple sentence: _Tell Yig._

 

Antenna turning the bright green of bewilderment, Dlo’Yug considered the short message for a moment before timidly admitting “ _My king, I’m afraid I don’t understand. What am I to tell the Father of Serpents?_ ” But the Emperor knew his inquisitiveness was both foolish and in vain, for as it spoke Hastur’s essence was quickly receding, leaving his statue dark and the empty chamber feeling even emptier.

 

“ _My Lord?_ ” Dlo buzzed, feeling a little more like an imbecile for talking to nothing but air, but it had no idea what else to think or say, much less what to make of the King’s enigmatic command. “ _Please, forgive my ignorance, but I do not understand. What am I to tell Yig?_ ” It dared not raise it’s voice above a whisper, but despite it’s loyalty to Hastur, Dlo’Yug was feeling quite frustrated, having a difficult time trying to keep it’s tone from becoming mordant. Dlo quickly gave up, assuming that, perhaps, it will understand when the time is right. After all, Hastur always knows best. Dlo had faith that it’s King would never say or do anything without a valid purpose.

 

Leaning forward, Dlo’Yug placed another claw upon the freezing surface of the effigy, and splayed the rest of it’s limbs across the shadow-heavy floor around it’s body. “ _I trust in you, my Yellow King._ ” It prayed, quietly. “ _I will do as you bade me. For the Aristocracy. For the Gestalt Ethereal. For you._ ” After a prolonged pause, during which Dlo’Yug allowed itself to reestablish it’s inner tranquility and allow the light calm to sink into it’s hearts, the lone Yuggothian droned “Iä. Iä. Yi’jfk gkyool de’asg-yuiw Hastur rwlogghj Carcosa. _Keep our homes, lives, and families safe, my King, and allow your creation to prosper. Keep my brothers and my subjects on the right path, and keep me within your influence._

_“Long live the Gestalt and long live the King.”_

 

 

… … …

 

 

From the chapel, Dlo’Yug continued up the flight shaft, scaling several dozen more stories until it reached the highest levels. There, the shaft opened up at the bottom a large spherical chamber—called the Congressional Hub—the walls of which were dotted with sealed gates and webs of black-light signs, similar to those within the flight shaft. But, here, each door was connected with narrow catwalks that spiraled along the universally concave perimeter, in addition to equally narrow bridges that systematically wove from one hemisphere of the chamber to the next and back, overall completing a structure that resembled a gargantuan urchin; the spines being the bridges and the nucleus being an orb-shaped stability platform a little under a tenth of the diameter of the chamber itself. Mirrored glass plated the walls, and the overall effect of this vanquished the sensation of a spherical room, the manifold reflections instead creating the illusion of an infinitely expanding spatial realm filled with nothing but innumerable bridges and doors organized into a matrix of incalculable proportions. The sole obstruction to this dazzling display—and the only means of seeing outside of it—was the skylight that dominated the topmost fraction of the chamber, the glass of which was carved with numerous patterns that, when viewed from one angle, all-in-all resembled Hastur’s Pallid Mask inset with the Yellow Sign. When the image was viewed the opposite angle, it took on the semblance of the Earth itself, stamped with the Aristocracy’s shield and orbited by stylized depictions of a Yuggothian, a Syorian, and a Deep One. Each line and curve glowed with colors from various radiation spectrums as light filtered in and fractured in as many pieces as there were shapes in the skylight itself. Past that one could view the sky that hung closely over the Pinnacle, as well as the three gleaming spires that adorned the tower’s crown, always meditating in perfect serenity within the starlit window’s peripherals.

 

Dlo’Yug landed on the secondary bridge, where most of the other smaller bridges conjoined, one of which being the rather humble path that led to the conference chamber in which N’hil’eh and Y’m Elleaor waited. The door—marked specifically as the gate to said chamber by the special arrangement of violet arches around the frame—was no more prominent that the rest, the only noticeable difference being the two densely armored guard-variants, one of the few types of Yuggothians that equaled the Emperor in height, but not in size. While Dlo’Yug was tall but thin, the guards were both tall and incredibly hefty, with bodies like thick-shelled beasts, claws like the blades on an asteroid-driller, limbs like articulated pillars, and wings the size of Ithaqua’s footprints. They were truly behemoths, capable of striking down battalions with intimidation alone, but like any other denizen of the Yuggoth system, they bowed before the Emperor. Figuratively speaking.

 

“ _Hail the Emperor all mighty!_ ” The two troops boomed in unison, as expected from individuals of their discipline. Just as irked by the repetitive salute as it was two hours ago, Dlo’Yug tried not to scoff and practice it’s sarcasm on the twin masses of metal and flesh (“ _My day was perfectly alright! Thank you for asking_!”). The two didn’t deserve it anyhow. They were good soldiers, only doing what they were conditioned to do since birth, and it would be terribly unprofessional of Dlo to chide then for being respectful.

 

Instead, the emperor retorted with a halfhearted “ _At ease gents._ ” before continuing on it’s way to the gate, but before Dlo’Yug even came close enough to trip the motion detectors, the doors slid open with the liquid fluidity of living organs, expelling a burst of cool air from the other side. Standing in the doorway—posture rigid and upright, as always—was the small yet hardy Deep One known as Y’m Elleaor. His webbed claws impatiently drummed on the shaft of the gold cane he needlessly carried with him, creating a sharp rhythm akin to raindrops.

 

“ _I was just about to go looking for._ ” Y’m croaked, his voice like wet pebbles being ground beneath the wide foot of a yuiotal-lkia. Though his bulging eyes gazed with firm disapproval beneath heavy brows (a look that is actually very uncommon among the Deep One’s, since their facial features are perpetually fixed in a vapid gawk) his wide and puffy lips were ever so slightly curled into a faint smirk. “ _I’m glad to see you made it._ ”

 

Shifting his gaze briefly between the two Yuggothian guards—no doubt judging them as a military connoisseur—Y’m Elleaor stepped out into the open. The directionless miasma of starlight filling the chamber made the glossy scales shielding his skin look more violet than the usual teal shade. The spikes and fins that ran down the center of his crest and spine, as well as all four of his limbs, glimmered with an oily iridescence, while the threadbare, gold-and-sapphire jewelry covering his biceps, brow, and crotch seemed to lose their usual luster and ended up blending in with the rest of his body. The white cape draped across his left shoulder, however, seemed to be immune and still shone with an odd purity one would not expect from a garment stitched together on the ocean floor. “ _How did your detour fair?_ ” asked Y’m Elleaor, sounding unexpectedly genuine.

 

“ _Same as usual._ ” Dlo buzzed, looking down at the sour amphibian. Y’m might have been imposing in his own right, but next to Dlo’Yug or any Yuggothian militant he was quite diminutive, being over a meter shorter than Yuggoth’s Emperor. “ _Well, that’s not entirely true. I received a very, very curious command. At least I believe it was a command_.”

 

“ _From our King?_ ” The Deep One inquired, a rigid brow shooting up.

 

“ _Correct. To be absolutely honest, I’m at a complete loss to explain, but I trust Hastur. I do. Perhaps I will understand in the future, maybe when an issue concerning Yig arises…_ ”

 

“ _What does this have to do with Yig?_ ”

 

“ _Hastur’s command was ‘Tell Yig’_.”

 

“ _That’s…interesting. Tell Yig what?_ ”

 

Dlo’Yug shrugged it’s wings. “ _That’s what I don’t understand. For the time being I’m assuming I’ll soon be faced with a particular dilemma, to which Hastur’s premonition would be a convenient answer to. Enough about that, though. I’ll explain more later on when we don’t have anything better to discuss. Where’s N’hil’eh? Is it hiding or did it rush off to watch 790-467B collide with Venus?_ ”

 

“ _No. It’s in the consumables hold, trying to organize a, uh, a sampler plate. Or something like that._ ” Y’m answered, simpering.

 

“ _Is this whole food obsession with you former-organics just recreational or do you honestly feel the need eat at every given moment?_ ” Dlo’Yug tried not to laugh. “ _I know your nutrition is still required, but good gods! I love N’hil’eh with all my hearts, but it really does seem like that it just eats for the sole purpose of eating._ ”

 

Y’m Elleaor sighed, his smile becoming somewhat more mirthful. “ _Even after all these millennia of living amongst us, you still don’t understand what it’s like being made of carbon flesh._ ”

 

“ _But you’re not carbon flesh anymore._ ”

 

“ _Old habits die hard, brother. Believe me._ ” Y’m chuckled, patting Dlo on one of it’s arms. “ _Anyhow, I think N’hil’eh should be getting back now. I…_ ”

 

A loud and dainty tune issued from within the conference chamber, which both Yuggothian and Deep One recognized as N’hil’eh’s distinctive, cheerful voice exclaiming “ _Is that Dlo’Yug?! Gods darn it, Y’m Elleaor! Why didn’t you tell me Dlo was here?!_ ” Then, the whistling Syorian in question ran outside like an excited larvae on it’s five hastily flowing legs.

 

“ _‘Speak of the the Crawling Chaos and he shall appear’._ ” Y’m quoted the old saying as the apparently oblivious Syorian approached.

 

N’hil’eh seemed to almost trip over itself as it came to an abrupt stop before the rest of the group. For a moment, Dlo thought it’s barrel-shaped bulk actually would collapse across the floor, so the Emperor readied itself to catch the poor bumbling crinoid should that happen. Fortunately, N’hil’eh immediately righted itself, standing straight and steady as an politician should. Dlo’Yug always did manage to forget that Syorians, with their exceptional self balance, were difficult to knock down.

 

To the uneducated, N’hil’eh looked no different than any other radial native of the Sy-or Empire. Standing ever so slightly taller than Dlo, the Syorians were a strange and intimidating people by nature, which contrasted heavily with their near universal pacifism. They completely lacked the fore-and-aft pattern of bi-symmetrical creatures like anthropoids or the Yuggothians (a quality that made it difficult to determine what direction any given Syorian was facing, if any), because they were a pent-symmetrical race, having five of each extremity equally distributed around the circumference of a lozenged shaped torso. Five arms, five legs, five wings, five eye-stalks, five mouths; an assortment of sinuous appendages that made N’hil’eh and it’s kin look like extravagant plants that had miraculous uprooted themselves and started walking around. N’hil’eh, otherwise appearing identical to other Syorians, had only one physical trait that was unique to the five-sided patriarch: a quintet of teal stripes that ran down it’s height, beginning around the nasal orifice on top of it’s “head”, running between and past the eye-stalks, down the neck, down the body, across the wings, over the legs, and terminating in the broad fins that served as N’hil’eh’s feet. Be they tattoos or a natural marking, the stripes were not only vivid in their own beautiful way but glowed with a bioluminescence that often pulsed with a heart-beat like rhythm. Though it was not nearly as affective as using it’s natural method of communication, N’hil’eh seemed to be able to use it’s teal stripes to communicate in the Yuggothian language to a limited degree. It’s done so before. On more than one occasion N’hil’eh had managed to use it’s stripes to “exclaim” Yuggothian greetings by perfectly matching the light pattern of the given word. In Dlo’Yug’s mind, that would make N’hil’eh a surprisingly intelligent and thoughtful individual, altering it’s body for the purpose of taking to Dlo in it’s own tongue.

 

“ _Dlo’Yug, my friend, I’m so glad to see you again._ ” N’hil’eh whistled, it’s words accompanied by the rhythmic flapping of it’s wings and the joyous wiggling of it’s tentacles. Three of it’s eyes were focused on the Yuggothian, the large, red irises gleaming with the the excitement of a naive youngling reunited with it’s legal guardian. “ _After four, dreadfully dull months off world, you really are a sight for sore eyes, I tell you. It’s good…I…_ ” N’hil’eh froze, seeming to consider it’s next words. The flailing tentacles dropped, and the tips of it’s wings curled tightly, making a slight creaking sound that segued into silence, which N’hil’eh seemed reluctant to break. The barrel-shaped leader was nervous, unable to continue.

 

“ _The feelings are mutual, brother._ ” Was all Dlo’Yug could say before it too locked itself in an awkward hush. Something worth saying came to Dlo’s mind, and it made as if it was about to speak it—prompting N’hil’eh to perk up in attention—but whatever that something was it had rolled back into the abyss of it’s subconscious before it could materialize in it’s vocalizer. N’hil’eh, in apparent attempt to put them both at ease, let out a low laugh. Dlo’Yug, embarrassed andunable to respond to the beloved crinoid, stole a sidelong glance at Y’m Elleaor, who simply rolled his globular eyes at his brothers’ trepidation. He didn’t understand. For that matter, neither did Dlo’Yug, and it doubted N’hil’eh comprehended it any more that it did. How many times did the three of them meet in this exact spot, for the exact purpose? Tens of Thousands of times? Somewhere near a million? N’hil’eh, Dlo’Yug, and Y’m Elleaor had known each other for millennia; have shared the seat of command, spearheaded civil revolutions together, fought countless wars at each other’s sides, put their heads together to weave their way through thick and thin towards a common goal. Challenged by everything, overcame every obstacle, yet the Yuggothian and the Syorian couldn’t even start a basic, let alone professional, conversation without stopping in their tracks at the very sight of one another. That’s the way it’s always been. Every time they met, in everyday situations like this, they just stop and stare without ever really understanding why. It couldn’t speak for N’hil’eh—would never dare project its opinions on it’s brother like that—but Dlo’Yug would often ponder in unending frustration why it must botch their shared encounter. Nerves, perhaps. Dlo’Yug always liked to think it had a hundred things to say, but could never summon the courage to say them. Dlo’Yug—a former diplomat and chief politician of Yuggoth—couldn’t even speak to one person. Even if said person was someone very near and dear to it. Dlo’Yug could never understand.

 

Dlo’Yug forced itself to extend a wing towards N’hil’eh, it’s antenna turning a bright and welcoming pink with the slightest trace of anxious purple. “ _Good to see you, friend_.” Dlo’Yug buzzed, suddenly feeling the inexplicable need to take those words back and say something more convincing. Despite that, N’hil’eh sighed and it’s forward most arms looped around one another, indicating that, like the Yuggothian, it was nervous but feeling warm and happy.

 

“ _Good to see you._ ” N’hil’eh whistled, extending it’s wing, letting the leathery membrane gently brush against the misty fabric of Dlo’Yug’s own wing, a gesture of affection and brotherhood. Or perhaps something a little deeper than that. Again, Dlo couldn’t explain and was too scared to even attempt to.

 

The sound of wet mud slapping the ground broke the moment, and Dlo’Yug realized that was just Y’m clearing his throat, clearly wanting the two’s attention. The Deep One held his small, bronze pocket watch (a little gear powered device, of the kind which his race had inherited from their human brethren, back when the pink apes thought they ruled the Earth) in his flabby hand, a clawed thumb tapping the glass shield over the perpetually turning hands. “ _It’s 00:16:40. Our meeting should have started ten minutes ago._ ” He growled, letting the superior beings deduce his implications.

 

Judging by it’s body language, Dlo could tell N’hil’eh was vexed, but tried to conceal that. Then it relaxed, turning to regard Dlo’Yug with lax humor in it’s crimson eyes. N’hil’eh nodded it’s star shaped head, a gesture it had picked up from Y’m Elleaor. “ _He’s right._ ” the Syorian admitted. “ _We should get this started. It would be unwise of us to waste anymore time._ ”

 

“ _Indeed_.” Y’m huffed. With an unnecessary flick of his cape, the Deep One shambled back into the conference chamber, once again staring down the guards.

 

N’hil’eh lingered for a few more seconds, it’s innocent gaze making Dlo’Yug do the same. With a buoyant flex of it’s tentacles, N’hil’eh extended it’s wing once more, rubbing it against Dlo’Yug’s shoulders in a kind of pat. “ _Shall we get going?_ ”

 

Dlo’Yug returned the gesture, offering it’s wing, which the Syorian gingerly grasped in two of it’s arms. “ _Let’s_.”

 

“ _I love it when you stare, by the way._ ” N’hil’eh chimed as the two followed the gold-covered toad. Dlo’Yug turned pink.

 

 

… … …

 

 

 

The meeting proceeded as planned. The three of them seated themselves around the modestly sized table, which was affixed with six surface mounted control panels (one for each of the patriarchs and an additional three for whenever there’s any extra participants) and a hologram projector in the center, which was currently displaying a glowing pink star map, showing every star cluster in sectors 390 through 716. The three dimensional, though carefully detailed, projection appeared to the casual observer as little more than a mass of bright specks slowly moving in circles above the table, like a swarm of Shan performing one of their rituals. It was only on closer inspection that one could deduce that each tiny dot was actually a scale model of a star—complete with animated sunspots and solar flares—marked with their respective destinations. If one had the ability to look any closer, the individual would see much, much smaller bodies—the planets, moons, and such—ever so slowly orbiting the holographic stars. Dlo’Yug knew exactly where the Earth and its patent star, Sol-3151937, was located in relation to the rest of the map. Most of the time it manifested on the lowermost portion, not exactly at the edge but close enough that Dlo could clearly see the seven planets that danced around 3151937 every time the nano-sized solar system made it’s way through Dlo’s field of vision. Save for the glow of the hologram, the room was entirely unlit, the darkness leaving pretty much everything else to the imagination. Since all three of them can easily do without light—with Dlo’Yug hailing from dark 567L, Y’m Elleaor spending every sixth fortnight in the deepest trenches of Earth, and N’hil’eh skilled in the curious art of echolocation—no one ever complained about this oddity.

 

Deliberations ensued in earnest, with formal introductions all but glossed over and the foremost debate—deciding wether the dwarf planet Ph’drio-Ves should be assimilated into the Gobb-Otronian rural zone or repurposed as a commercial spacecraft testing facility—getting off to a considerably rocky start.

 

After that argument was settled, the three discussed the economic strain in L’gy’hx, outlined the next year’s plan for harvesting solar fuels, talked about turning the Ghimnii Sector into a new nature reserve, and addressed the issues concerning a comparatively insignificant terrorist organization know as “Yuggoth’s Light”.

 

After that they made slight amendments to the Ciolta Doctrine, scheduled a conference at the Ji-Ol-Roth Genetics Center, arranged plans for a ceremony celebrating the indoctrination of three new planets, signed forty-four legal bills, signed an immigration proposal, confirmed the amount of freshly minted currency units, shut down a scandalous university, gave the green light for a new PV manufacturing plant, signed the death warrants on about eight hundred prisoners, incorporated the Kingdom of Sub-Huul into the Third Tier, delivered funds for the repairs on Earth’s orbital ring, pondered on a civilian legal union submission, banned certain counterproductive medications in Sector 114, commissioned the production of a new wave of Seil-Noth mechs, established the date of the next Civil Progress Address, drew plans for the extermination of the Wer-Merip’es buzzards, estimated the grants for the myriad of education programs for the “slow fishes”, and last but not least, debated on when to hold the next meeting of the Aristocratic patriarchs. The three quickly decided that they would assemble once more exactly four and half months later, at 12:12:60, terrestrial orbit 78.U. Y’m Elleaor made it a point to put a great deal of emphasis on that date, likely to make sure Dlo’Yug had it memorized. The Yuggothian internally snickered as it mused over possibly showing up half an hour late just to taunt the amphibian.

 

“ _Alright_ ,” N’hil’eh announced, it’s eye-stalks swaying back and forth as they idly followed the globular data-files that floated around in the holographic display. “ _Before we conclude, I would like confirm that we covered all the necessary topics. Did we leave anything out?_ ” As it said this, two of it’s tentacle clusters started absently dancing over the dials on the table while a third grabbed a spherical drinking glass, filled to the brim with a bright yellow liquid, from beneath the table and promptly dropped one of it’s feeding members into the pulpy drink. It made a rude slurping noise as it sipped. Even from across the table, Dlo could smell the beverage, which was malodorous as sulphur but was oddly laced with the pleasant scent of homegrown copper fruit. Dlo almost considered asking the Syorian for a taste but decided on saving that query until after the formalities were over.

 

Y’m Elleaor leaned back, setting his cane across the control panel in front of him and crossing his thick arms. His profound lips pouted in contemplation as be gazed past Dlo’Yug, as if his answers crouched somewhere in one of the chamber’s shadowed corners. At length the General shrugged. “ _I believe we went over everything. Brother?_ ” His glassy eye’s slithered in Dlo’Yug’s direction.

 

“ _I think you’re right, but…_ ” Instead of doing the proper thing and completing it’s thought, Dlo gestured for the Deep One to wait a moment before it typed a command into it’s control panel, resulting in one of the virtual file bubbles above their heads to flash a neon purple. With a curt strike to the “Com. INI/Y?” key, the bubble dropped in front of Dlo’Yug’s waving antenna and unfolded until it took the form of a rectangular page, displaying a array of organized notes. “ _Let me consult the list…_ ” the Emperor buzzed half heartedly, skimming all of the day’s subjects and making sure each one had been thoroughly addressed.

 

“ _You made a list?_ ” N’hil’eh chimed, taking another obscene swig.

 

“ _Yes. I make a list for everything._ ” Dlo’Yug droned.

 

“ _It’s a good way to stay organized, you know?_ ” Y’m Elleaor informed the crinoid, punctuating with a rasping cough that sounded disturbingly like a death rattle. The old fish’s throat must have been getting dry. He’s been on the surface too long.

 

“ _Are you implying I’m not organized?_ ” N’hil’eh whistled, it’s leftmost wing extending in Y’m’s direction in lieu of pointing. They were both joking, but N’hil’eh, in it’s undying sense of humor, wanted to make it’s accusation look outlandishly real.

 

Finishing it’s scan of the to-do list, Dlo’Yug deleted the file and buzzed “ _That’s it. We did cover everything._ ”

 

Y’m wordlessly nodded while N’hil’eh asked “ _So, how many items were on that list anyways?_ ”

 

“ _Three-hundred fifteen. We argued over three-hundred fifteen topics today. Not a bad feat for a conference that lasted just under three hours._ ”

 

“ _Oh_.” N’hil’eh awed.

 

Y’m chortled. “ _You know it’s amazing we can even tolerate each other’s presence after all that._ ”

 

“ _Yes!_ ” N’hil’eh agreed, emphasizing with a very unneeded strike to the surface of the table. “ _We did not kill each other, and that’s a victory for us, the Gestalt, and basic mortal decency! Huzzah!_ ”

 

“ _Anyways…_ ” Dlo cut in, motioning the slightly intoxicated Syorian to settle down. “ _So, as one among the three divinely chosen leaders of the Tri-Kingdom Aristocratic Order, I have confirmed that all matters of executive interest have been properly identified, addressed, and completed to the best of our ability. I here by bring this meeting to a close…_ ” It stood, passively flipping a switch that shut off the file display on the hologram and returned it to the default star map mode. “ _And I bid you two a good day, safe travels, and may you continue to serve the Gestalt and the King however you can._ ”

 

“ _You’re leaving so soon?_ ” N’hil’eh cooed, curling it’s tentacles with dismay.

 

“ _No. Not really._ ” Dlo sat back down and relaxed, knowing it wasn’t really going to be parting any time soon. “ _You know the traditions, brother. The formal farewell must always be uttered. By the way, do you have any more of those flasks? They smelled disgusting but that hasn’t diluted my curiosity._ ”

 

“ _What, this?_ ” N’hil’eh held up it’s beverage. “ _Of course I have more. There’s another six bottles in the storage room. It’s the Pnakotic drink I told you about earlier._ ”

 

“ _Please, for the love of Dagon, don’t tell me you planned on drinking all seven of those bottles_ , _N’hil’eh_.” Y’m growled rubbing the broad space between his eyes. “ _I really can’t believe you would get drunk at the Pinnacle, during a time like this. That’s incredibly disrespectful, and not to mention pathetic_.”

 

“ _Lighten up, fish._ ” N’hil’eh scoffed. “ _I would never be so stupid as to ingest so much in such a short amount of time. Gods, I may be eternally a four-hundred-year-old at heart but at least I posses a little bit of accountability._ ” Rising, the five-sided crinoid scuttled into the darkness in the general direction of the storage area, coming back seconds later with two orb-shaped glass flasks in hand, each glowing with a share of the yellow liquid.

 

“ _Refreshments are served!_ ” It cheered, hoisting it’s towering barrel of a body back onto it’s stool. The Syorian chirped a gleeful “ _Heads up!_ ” and tossed one bottle at Y’m, who snatched the projectile out of the air with a swing of his webbed claw. As the Deep One mumbled a barely audible “ _And don’t throw things either”_ , N’hil’eh rolled the second bottle across the table, the weight of the thick liquid inside ensuring that it accelerated quickly and in a straight line until Dlo’Yug could catch it.

 

“ _By the way, brother,_ ” N’hil’eh whistled, wings jerking in anticipation. “ _You would be please to know that I had that one…_ ” It flicked a tentacle at Dlo’s drink as the Yuggothian examined the gooey substance with doubt. “ _…special ordered. It’s mixed with a very, very generous helping of your favorite._ ”

 

“ _My favorite?_ ” Dlo’Yug would trust N’hil’eh with it’s life, but that didn’t change the fact that it was uncertain about putting this Yithian drink in it’s body. Slowly unscrewing the metal cork (and secretly dreading the strange odor that surely awaited), Dlo wondered what it’s “favorite” was supposed to be, since it didn’t immediately recall ever discussing anything like that with N’hil’eh.

 

“ _Indeed_.” N’hil’eh didn’t elaborate. But then again, it didn’t need to. As soon as the cork was removed, the drink’s odor exploded out, but it wasn’t nearly as suffocating as Dlo’Yug had expected. Shocked, it found the scent very familiar, bringing to mind a certain fruit it had enjoyed half an aeon ago while on a business trip to Yuggoth-45-8N. To this day it remains one of the best delicacies in all the ninety-nine galaxies.

 

“ _Pelh-Vuos berries._ ” Dlo’Yug awed, wafting more of the familiar fumes towards it’s olfaction probes, it’s antenna turned a bright pink with delight. “ _Good Hastur, I haven’t eaten those in thousands of years. N’hil’eh, brother, how did you know? I…I never told you!_ ”

 

From the way it’s feeding members drooped, Dlo could tell it had somehow offended poor N’hil’eh, unsurprisingly. But then the tentacles perked up again the next second and the Syorian seemed to become it’s cheerful self once more. “ _What are you taking about? Come now, brother. Do you not remember our jaunt to Jiool-Zzak?_ ” N’hil’eh took another sip of it’s drink, thereafter eyeing it as it immersed itself in memory. “ _You and I ventured there about six centuries ago to inspect the local capital building, which had then recently been constructed._ ”

 

“ _I remember that_.” Dlo’Yug interjected. “ _Albeit very vaguely. I think I was somewhat ill then. My mind wasn’t functioning at it’s maximum capacity, and I found it difficult to absorb every moment and detail of the environment_.” After a short pause, Dlo’Yug added “ _I’m sorry. I’m making up excuses, and I interrupted you._ ”

 

N’hil’eh giggled, a shrill and merry sound escaping it’s nasal orifice. “ _No need to apologize, Dlo. I sometimes forget that your people favor the moment over memory, unlike my kin, who can easily recall every second that transpired since our births. But, yes, we were on Jiool-Zzak, and we had ratified a new governing facility. I remember afterwards we indulged in some of the local cuisines, at my behest. A small, outlying surface colony is where we went, and it was called Gei-Vi, or something like that. I remembered you called it ‘The Blue Village’ because the streets were overshadowed by azure Plasma-Trees, and the bricks of all the buildings were studded with lapis lazuli. And, of course, the name was just so much easier to pronounce.”_ N’hil’eh stopped to steal a glance at Y’m Elleaor, who wasn’t paying any attention to the Syorian lord’s yarn. Instead the old frog occupied itself by slowly and gingerly pouring his drink into his lofty maw and rolling the liquid over his tongue, scaly jowls wrinkled in indecisiveness as if he had no idea what to think of the taste. N’hil’eh then looked back at Dlo’Yug and twisted it’s tentacles in a way that would have been considered a kind of smile to an anthropoid, very likely amused by his amphibious friend’s obliviousness. The Yuggothian returned the “smile” with a short-lived flash of pink and purple.

 

“ _Anyhow,_ ” N’hil’eh continued. “ _We came upon one establishment, nestled somewhere in the culinary district, that served a local dish called ‘Va-Thu-La-Meha’ which was something so indescribable in it’s utter bizarreness but nonetheless delectable. You were hesitant to taste it, I recall._ ”

 

“ _I’ve never been a connoisseur of off-world foods._ ” Dlo’Yug admitted with a shrug. “ _Much less a very adventurous eater. It’s not a commonly evident trait on the Yuggoth System. I think I remember you urging me to try something, and eventually I conceded._ ”

 

“ _That you did! And you loved it! You said it was—and I quote—‘a truly marvelous feat of culinary engineering, worthy of the time and attention of any sentient being with tastebuds’._ ”

 

“ _Yeah. That sounds like something I would say._ ” Dlo’Yug buzzed, the memory of which gently forcing its way to the forefront of it’s mind.

 

N’hil’eh laughed. “ _You always did have the most curious way of describing things, old friend. I always thought it was cute. Onward with the story, though, I declared the dish to be my absolute favorite—the best thing I ever ate—but you were quite reluctant to make that same claim. You said, as I recall, ‘It’s heavenly, but by far not the greatest morsel I ever consumed’. ‘What would be the greatest?’ I asked. That’s when you said ‘Pelh-Vuos berries’. Ever since then, I remembered that and sought out those allusive little fruits at any convenient moment, just so I can surprise you and see you enjoy a treat you truly adore. Do you like it?_ ”

 

Embarrassed, Dlo’Yug realized it had yet to taste N’hil’eh’s gift. It had almost stammered out a hasty apology, but with little thought silenced itself by instead bringing the flask up to it’s feeding orifice and sucking up a hefty serving. After timidly giving the Syorian a passing glance—who returned with a quick wiggle of it’s tentacles, eagerly awaiting the Yuggothian’s answer—Dlo’Yug shut down it’s higher senses, letting only that of taste remain. The yellow beverage, which was more goo than liquid, wormed down Dlo’s esophagus, stimulating the cilia lining it’s interior, and simmered into oblivion as it’s body digested the substance in an instant. Dlo’Yug briefly regretted that the initial taste ended so quickly because the euphoria it brought it was completely unrivaled. The tangy, spicy, cosmic burn penetrated the Emperor’s being, warming body and mind with a blissful sense of nostalgia, nearly satisfied with a long remembered taste that was almost exactly that of those berries it partook of so long ago. Suddenly, Dlo’Yug could recall the exact moment it had first tried the Pelh-Vuos, a long time ago when it was in it’s thirty-fourth stage of biological development, roaming the Sethrakha forests—gleaming with twisting Uylues and crystalline Xux-Lu—with a few of it’s comrades. It had simply found the little incandescent orbs among a mass of hiol vines and, throwing caution to the wind, ingested one.

 

Suddenly rouser from it’s daydream, Dlo’Yug looked over at N’hil’eh as if it was a surprise visitor in it’s reminiscences, quickly realizing the Syorian was still awaiting an verbal response, although very patiently.

 

“ _N’hil’eh, I…uh, I…_ ” the Yuggoth stuttered, fighting the urge to down another sip so it could properly communicate it’s gratitude to the beloved gift-giver.

 

But before it could say anything, N’hil’eh let out a shrill “ _Oh! Wait a minute! I almost forgot!_ ” before letting it’s sinuous digits type it’s control panel with sudden feverishness, emitting a low, sing-song hum ringing with excitement. It continued, still typing “ _Now that I’ve given you two quite a buzz, I figured you might get a slight kick out of this little curio I found._ ”

 

Y’m Elleaor, possibly agitation about being given a “buzz”—deliberately or otherwise—slammed its empty flask (and, surprisingly, not shattering it) on the table and loudly croaked “ _If this is another damn video feed of a Saturnian feline playing an atomic harpsichord I swear to Dagon, N’hil’eh, I’m going to scream._ ”

 

“ _That video was cute and you know it, froggy._ ” N’hil’eh smirked, still not looking up from it’s task. “ _Anyhow, this is something completely different. If you must know, it’s a series of pan-spectrum images taken by orbital surveillance units and a few s.d.d. readings._ ”

 

“ _Satellites? Why, is this an image of a Saturn cat playing a harpsichord… taken from space?_ ” Dlo’Yug jested.

 

“ _No, but I wish it were so._ ” N’hil’eh chuckled as it finally ceased typing and shifted it’s foremost eyes towards the hologram, which was already in the process of reconfiguring. “ _Voice command: set configuration 44.3._ ” N’hil’eh ordered the computer, which had promptly responded with a near musical ringing, announcing that the VR-GPL program was loaded and ready to use. “ _Focus Sol-3151937; real-time planet scans set to Terra-9000347, codenamed: Earth._ ”

 

In the blink of an optical organ, the tiny model of Sol-3151937—which had heretofore remained in its negligible little spot in the model galaxy’s lower rim—had swelled to consume almost all of the space above the table, pushing the other thousands of stars out of visual range. The hologram monitor lingered on simulated star for a few seconds as it loaded the Earth’s current space-time coordinates. In the meantime, the three patriarchs basked in the equally simulated solar storm 3151937 was casting across the room, watching as mock solar flares swirled and danced over their heads like a wild cluster of mating plasma-dragons. From the fascinated gleam in N’hil’eh’s eyes, Dlo’Yug could tell the Syorian was enjoying the little spectacle during it’s short duration. The view then refocused on the sun’s inner orbit, closing in on one planet in particular: the very one on which the three of them currently sat. The orbitalrings shimmered with a pallid luster that created the illusion that the hologram was actually made of metal, and the two moons drifted like mindless space amebas around the gray-and-blue planet, one being a natural moon that was almost as ancient as the Earth itself and the other being a massive artificial satellite built by the Venusians almost a millennia and a half ago. Upon closer examination of the planet’s surface, Dlo could see the Pinnacle itself protruding out the upper hemisphere, an almost forgettable thumbtack stuck within the gulf between Tulm’uk-Obeleze and Sly’Gho Theth. Dlo’Yug thought for a second that N’hil’eh wanted it’s two comrades to direct their attention towards that, but when it whistled “ _Lock coordination: LN-56.478; LG-12.84_ ” the Yuggothian realized the subject of N’hil’eh’s interest was actually located on the Syorian owned continent of Yut-Leng. More specifically: the Kadath mountain range near the commercial hub Sy-or Antarktos. The planet then gave way to a geographical map of the Kadath range, showing a jagged line of mountains zigzagging across the table, with the threateningly enormous peak of Kadath-Neo clawing at the highest reaches of the atmosphere. The scale model—though not nearly as impressive as the real thing—easily put in perspective just how large Kadath-Neo was, for that one black-sloped mountain was well over five times the size of it’s kindred, which were already the highest peaks to ever naturally occur on Earth. It was like looking at a mother D’hole squatting amongst a horde of it’s “B’hole” younglings.

 

“ _What do you intend on showing on us?”_ Y’m asked sharply.

 

“ _I’m getting to that._ ” N’hil’eh snapped back. One swift strike to the keyboard summoned a three-dimensional graph onto the holographic display, hovering just above Kadath-Neo. It showed the average intensity of spacial distortion over the past five months for the Kadath region alone, appearing in shape as an expanse of gently palpitating waves that, coincidentally, resembled the mountains beneath. Adding to that impression was one particularly exaggerated potion of the graph that represented a recent spike in spacial distortion, which resembled Kadath-Neo when compared to the mild, normal read outs. With that particular mountain having grown over a dimensional crossroad, ripples in the fabric of the universe were nothing uncommon, and were usually caused by beings native to other dimensions frequently brushing against the veils between this realm and theirs. But an above average reading only occurs when one such being successfully breaches the veil, however briefly. Every so often a company or government division would require the aid of an Outsider, and thus use Kadath-Neo as a kind of gateway, or at least a meeting point between the material realm and whatever other plain the object of their interest inhabits. The issue, however, is that such a thing would require the direct consent of the ruling bodies, which in this case would be the Aristocracy. Having just evaluated all the recently issued permits Dlo’Yug could say for certain that it—nor N’hil’eh, nor Y’m Elleaor—ever gave permission for Kadath-Neo’s recent activation, nor the immigration of an Outsider.

 

“ _As you can see by this chart,_ ” N’hil’eh began, gesturing to the item in question. “ _a little over three months ago a spike in spacial distortion occurred within the borders of the Kadath mountain range. Patrol units in Sy-or Antarktos detected this shortly after the fact, and, following an unsuccessful investigation, brought the anomaly to my attention. As you know, the average distortions for this region lingers at almost 523 s.d.d., but at the time of the occurrence, the s.d.d. very quickly and very briefly jumped to exactly 10,320 before returning to it’s normal levels. Amateur opinion would generally suggest that this is a result of either dimensional breaching or long distance teleportation.”_

 

“ _If so, then it was unauthorized._ ” Y’m Elleaor growled, stating what Dlo’Yug had already figured out.

 

“ _Indeed. Chief of the Border Guard initially believed that either a legal native of the Gestalt is using spacial distortion technology illegally or an Outsider has successfully managed to break through on it’s own accord…_ ”

 

“ _If I may, brother._ ” Dlo’Yug interrupted. “ _If this ordeal is in any shape or form important—and, not to mention, a concern of national security—why was this not a priority? I recall you statingthat this was little more than a ‘curio’, yet this seems to suggest a scenario as severe as the theft of emergency warp-transporters.”_

 

“ _Be patient. I was just getting to that part. The reason why I did not mention this any sooner is because, during the the ensuing three months, Sy-or’s top investigators were delving deep into the matter, and I took the liberty of personally supervising the operation. What we learned is thus: No teleportation apparatuses within this galaxy were functional at the time of the occurrence, no such apparatuses were reported to be missing, the wave-length patterns detected within the s.d.d. spike did not match those of a teleportation apparatus when activated, no parties have taken responsibility for this, and all three-hundred suspects were cleared of accusations upon researching their whereabouts at the time of the occurrence. That left us with the possibility that something crossed over into our world on it’s own. And that brings me to the orbital footage I mentioned earlier._ ”

 

Swiftly, N’hil’eh brought up a series of two-dimensional photographs. At first glance each showed what appeared to be the deeply cragged and lifelessly bleak surface of the Kadath mountains, a chaotic mix of stark shadows and wind buffeted rocks, whose cold gray pallor seemed to soak up the soft glow of the holographic display surrounding it. One photo, Dlo noticed, depicted the peak of Kadath-Neo, betrayed by the distinctive ridges and step-like shelved that radiated outward from the mountain’s dulled crown. On closer inspection, it saw that there were two small entities standing atop the uppermost shelf overlooking Antarktos, so small that any features the two specks might have had were all but invisible.

 

“ _What are those?_ ” Dlo’Yug asked. N’hil’eh enlarged the image that everyone was interested in, but the identities of two things atop the mountain still maintained their ambiguousness.

 

“ _I believe those are humans._ ” N’hil’eh further magnified the photo, revealing thatthe two very vague shapes had a passing resemblance to anthropoids when viewed from above. It could discern the blurs of color that were perhaps the creatures’ hair and the rough ellipsoid shape of the shoulders, but little else. Maybe Dlo’Yug could judge their identities for certain by examining the outline of their shadows, but to due to the even amount of starlight that was present when the photo was taken, no such shadows were evident. The only thing to even remotely solidify Dlo’s conviction was the trail of footprints that snaked from one corner of the photo towards one the figures. The prints had the distinct shape of a sole from the kind of footwear that, to Dlo’s knowledge, only humans were prone to wearing. Curiously, the other figure was not connected to any footprints, indicating it might have levitated or manifest right on the spot. The oddity left Dlo’Yug in doubt that that particular entity was human, let alone anthropoid.

 

“ _Humans_?” Y’m Elleaor barked incredulously. “ _On top of the highest peak on Earth? I always thought those pink apes were idiotic beyond all reason, but I highly doubt they posses even half the courage required to climb Kadath._ ”

 

“ _Perhaps they didn’t climb. Maybe they were the ones who came through the rift.”_ suggested N’hil’eh.

 

“ _But if you deduced that only a being that naturally existed on the other side can come through, then that would suggest that those humans are not from this realm_.” Dlo’Yug argued. “ _Human’s can’t exist anywhere other than the third dimension, so where else could they have come from?”_

 

“ _Good question._ ” N’hil’eh commanded it’s computer to display another graph, this time showing distortions, not from material space, but from a plain of existence that served as a kind of antithesis to the one of matter and energy. A realm of pure thought. Most cultures and races are aware of it in some form or another, however vaguely, for it’s a common element in virtually all religious and scientific belief systems. The Yuggothians called it the Beyond. Syorians refer to it as the Fourth Realm. The Deep Ones and their anthropoid ilk call it the Dreamlands. Gurus believe it is the Akashic, scientists believe it is dark matter. Dlo’Yug called it the background noise of the universe, omnipresent yet not important enough to pay any attention to. It’s there—always there—in every corner of the known multiverse, spread across all universes, dimensions, and timelines. It is a kind of pseudo-dimension where it’s reality isn’t shaped by the basic logic of cause and effect, but instead by the everyday thoughts and dreams of sentient beings in the material universe. Including humans.

 

It was believed for a while that, when the majority of the human race was exterminated, some of their souls managed to find permanent refuge in the Immaterial world, essentially achieving a form of afterlife. On that note, it would be no surprise that anyone would insinuate that the two humans originated from the “Dreamlands”. The graph depicting the Immaterial world was different from the model of Kadath in one very noticeable way: whereas the map depicting the material exemplified a rigid structure that changed only rarely, and due only to predictable spacial activity, the “map” depicting the immaterial was a chaotic and constantly shifting miasma of holographic light cells, reflecting it’s haphazardly illogical nature. While the material model became briefly distorted during the occurrence, the Immaterial became briefly rigid at that same moment. At N’hil’eh’s behest, the Immaterial graph loaded the s.d.d. readings taken at the time of the occurrence, and the result was a wavering 540; almost exactly on par with the levels of Kadath-Neo on a normal day.

 

“ _This_ ” N’hil’eh continued, indicating the numbers. “ _suggests that the Immaterial was somehow affected by our dimensional interference, or vice versa. The two worlds overlapped at the given point, possibly creating an opening through which our culprits were able to pass. As supporting evidence, the orbital images taken before the occurrence indicate that the humans were not present beforehand, neither atop Kadath-Neo, nor anywhere else in the immediate vicinity. But following that, they were there, just as you see in the image._ ”

 

“ _Only minds can exist within the realm of thought, N’hil’eh._ ” Dlo’Yug pointed out. “ _Do you have any idea as to how the bodies could have materialized, for it certainly did not come with the humans’ soul._ ”

 

“ _I have not the fondest clue, brother._ ” N’hil’eh shrugged. “ _Could have been fabricated on the spot by some means unknown to us._ ”

 

“ _And you’re still convinced that those humans warrant no concern?_ ” Dlo’Yug asked, not so much as to make N’hil’eh revaluation the situation, but to help itself solidify it’s own opinion on the matter. If this was an ordeal involving stolen teleportation technology or invading outsiders, Dlo’Yug might have been quick to issue a military investigation, and make finding and punishing the offenders a priority. But this involved humans. Mere humans. How or why were the big questions, but they were also the only questions so far. Dlo’Yug didn’t—or, rather, couldn’t—consider the duo a threat in any way, but it could consider them a precursor to something larger, and judging by the testy look he wore throughout the course of N’hil’eh’s presentation, Dlo’Yug could tell Y’m Elleaor was thinking along that same line, perhaps excluding the notion of the humans portending anything. He understood more than the Yuggothian or N’hil’eh ever could of the ultimate potential of mankind, or lack thereof. Y’m Elleaor, so it was rumored, had lived during the twentieth century of the A.D. Sapien Era, which saw the prelude of the “secret war” between humans and the Deep Ones, as well as anything else that was not a part the man-ape’s taxonomy. It was believed the episode started shortly after Cthulhu’s first arising, when human authorities—armed with primitive explosives—destroyed the ancient city Y’ha-nthlei and the nearby breeding ground of Innsmouth, massacring almost everyone therein. Though he never confirmed this himself (no one ever dared ask) Y’m Elleaor was supposedly one of the hybrid children living in Innsmouth at the time, thus he had the misfortune of seeing the carnage first hand. Since then it’s been no secret that the old amphibian harbored a very deep resentment for the mammalian anthropoids, who were once considered close relatives, and perhaps even allies, to the Deep Ones.

 

Unlike Y’m Elleaor, Dlo never had a very strong opinion towards mankind. True, the Yuggothian did have an aversion towards organic life forms, which included mankind before the Earth’s assimilation, but beyond that Dlo’Yug could never find a legitimate reason to personally hate humans in specific. No human—out of the the hundreds it had met during it’s lifetime—had ever affronted Dlo’Yug enough to arouse it’s rarely apparent rage. Humans were just annoying, that’s all. At their best, they were only amusing, being a fragile minded race that either goes outright insane or sufferers a cerebral aneurysm that results in a rather spectacular death at the sight of something as mundane as, say, a Shoggoth. Any creature so naturally timid and close minded that they literally die as a result of stepping out of their comfort zone would earn almost as much derision from a member of any other Kingdom as they would pity. Humans were tiny, weak, mentally incompetent, and cowardly, and unless they were multiplied a thousand fold and possessed enough nuclear weapons to atomize 568L, they present no practical reason for concern, much less police or military action. That is exactly why humans could never pass through a dimensional barrier of any kind on their own. As Dlo’Yug saw it, the only logical conclusion is that they must have had nonhuman assistants working outside the law, and it’s those assistants that could pose a threat to the Gestalt’s safety.

 

“ _Brother?_ ” Dlo’Yug buzzed. “ _Do you have a suggested course of action in mind?_ ”

 

“ _Well, no._ ” N’hil’eh cooed. “ _But then again, I don’t believe this is all that important either, to be quite honest. I have no idea what to make of this situation right now, which is why I’m asking you two if you could see anything worth fretting over._ ”

 

“ _I do not._ ” Y’m interjected. “ _Remember the angular overlap that consumed the Tesshera penal colony?_ ”

 

Dlo’Yug remembered, as did N’hil’eh. It was a completely random and, initially, inexplicable disaster where three separate dimensional planes merged right where Tesshera’s star system was situated. The resulting angle ended up opening a small crack in space-time which swallowed the planet Tesshera whole. They never recovered it, nor ever attempted to. It was a planet inhabited entirely by felons and security personnel who had already signed their life away anyhow. It was a freak act of the cosmos that happened against all odds, but it was ultimately explainable and by no means an result of conscious forces. Dlo’Yug knew what the Deep One was suggesting: If an angular overlap could drag an entire planet to Yog knows what realm, why couldn’t a similar phenomenon bring two insects from a parallel reality into this one? That explanation was almost solid, but it had no room for the apparent involvement of the Immaterial universe and it’s affiliated questions.

 

“ _Speaking out of personal opinion,_ ” Dlo’Yug hummed. “ _this situation seems to be just inane enough to overlook, but logically we must investigate further. We do not yet know all the factors at play, and for the sake of closure I would like to commission a localized investigation, involving no more than ten analytical units and whatever supplies is necessary to accomplish this task. I’m sure you would agree that we have more pressing matters at hand, so I would rather not waste any more resources than we need. It shall be an ongoing investigation, and until their duties are required elsewhere, the detectives shall not cease until the exact nature of the two humans is determined. N’hil’eh, do the orbital units still have a lock on the subjects?_ ”

 

The Syorian looked hesitant for a moment, taking a cursory glance at the figures flashing across his control monitor, rubbing it’s tentacles together in a ponderous gesture. “ _Yes…and no._ ” It finally fluted. “ _One subject—which the system has labeled RT0065—seems to have utterly vanished shortly after appearing. The satellite has yet to determine where it has escaped to, and thus had no luck establishing a geosynchronous lock. However the other human—RT0104—is still visible and mobile, and according to the most recent update, the surveillance units have tracked it all the way to Fl’ge’m M’Ldiae-N’chy, where it appears to currently reside._ ”

 

“ _So it’s moving northward?_ ” Dlo’Yug droned, turning an inquisitive violet. “ _Does the computer have any forecast loaded that might suggest the human’s next coarse?_ ”

 

“ _Yes, plenty. The mostly likely prediction—this indicates a sixty-four percent probability—says that RT0104 will most likely steer West once it enters the the botanical reserves, which is an environment it will undoubtedly find favorable. The terrain will likely herd the human toward the Giih isthmus, which will then bring it directly into Eastern Tulm’uk, within immediate proximity to the K’n-yani territory._ ”

 

An alarm went off in Dlo’s head and it’s antennae stiffened in renewed interest, having just received an unexpectedly enlightening piece of information. Humming to itself (in the act, earning curious glances from it’s contemporaries) Dlo’Yug realized that N’hil’eh might have provided a resolution to the King’s perplexing instructions. Partially unaware that it was speaking out loud, Dlo’Yug droned “ _RT0104… is heading into Yig’s domain?_ ”

 

“ _Does something interest you brother?_ ” N’hil’eh queried, punctuating with a light sip from it’s drink.

 

Before Dlo’Yug could answer for itself, Y’m croaked “ _This is about what Hastur told you, is it not? ‘Tell Yig’?_ ”

 

“ _Tell Yig_?” N’hil’eh asked, bewilderment contorting it’s facial members. But it’s question fell on deaf ears as Dlo’Yug commandeered the holographic display, shoving the two dimensional graphs aside and bringing the map of RT0104’s predicted path towards it’s own console. All the while Y’m’s interest seemed entirely invested in the Emperor’s quandary.

 

“ _This is what he meant, isn’t it?_ ” Dlo’Yug awed, it’s optical organ following the bright red line representing the human’s simulated course as it crossed the neon polygon representing the K’n-yan’s surface citadels.

 

“ _Could be._ ” Y’m observed. “ _Does this not make you wonder why—or if—Hastur would care about a loose human taking a hike through Tulm’uk?_ ”

 

“ _Tell Yig what?” N’hil’eh asked again in a way that was j_ ust short of being vehement.

 

Dlo’Yug finally responded, yet refused to to pry it’s attention away from the map. “ _While I was in the Chapel, brother, our lord communicated with me._ ” The words rolled out of it’s vocalized with a wistful reverence, faintly spliced with an agog tone.

 

Taken aback, N’hil’eh let out a low whistle that betrayed it’s near speechlessness. “ _Really? That’s…Why did you not tell me sooner?_ ”

 

Dlo’Yug could sense that it’s recently shattered reserve that somehow offended N’hil’eh. Letting remorse split the inquisitive fire in it’s mind, the Yuggothian turned to meet the Syorian’s gaze and buzzed “ _I’m deeply sorry, brother. I did not mean to withhold that information. I can see now how important it must be to the three of us as a whole. You see, while I was in the Chapel, Hastur told me something, quite unexpectedly. He said ‘Tell Yig’, and absolutely nothing more. Up until just recently, his order confused me, but now that you’ve informed us about RT0104’s existence, you’ve inadvertently given me the answer I’ve been needing. For that, I am grateful._ ” Here, N’hil’eh’s vexation eased, allowing a more pleasant expression to curl it’s countenance, a feeling which the Yuggothian couldn’t help returning with a bright pink and yellow flash of it’s antenna. Dlo’Yug continued. “ _This could all be a coincidence, for all I know, but I find it very curious that the King would tell me such thing shorty before our visitor enters Yig’s territory. I hope you see it as well, but it appears as if Hastur was telling me to inform Yig of RT0104’s imminent arrival._ ”

 

While Y’m, as expected, remained dubious about the matter (and thus only offered silence in lieu of any input), N’hil’eh seemed to beam at Dlo’Yug’s explanation, as if enlightened. “ _Brother, I completely agree._ ” The Syorian lord softly fluted. “ _I’ve never seen Hastur do something like this before, but I have no reason to doubt that your conclusion was his intended desire. But for caution’s sake, is there any other interpretation you could formulate? Do you believe that the King meant something entirely different?_ ”

 

“ _If so, then I have not the slightest clue. You’re right. It is very possible that my assumption is incorrect, but for the current lack of any other details, I must assume that this is what Hastur meant. If not, then this course of action will result in nothing more than the probable death of a stray human and a small inconvenience on Yig’s part, thus I can easily reevaluate Hastur’s command when need be._ ” Dlo’Yug paused, looking over at N’hil’eh’s as it’s crinoid brother shifted it’s tendrils in contemplation, examining the situation in it’s own perspective. Dlo then focused on the hologram again, peering at the map and the tiny triangular sprite that indicated the current location of RT0104. Like a fairy light, the speck of flashing orange and red roved across the uncolored canvas of Fl’ge’m M’Ldiae-N’chy, moving at a rate of less than half a millimeter a minute as the computer chronicled the mysterious ape’s movement in real time. “ _But, as I’ve said before, the origins or intentions of RT0104 is currently unknown to us, therefore we must take caution. Hastur undoubtedly knowns something we do not, and if I can’t ask him personally then I can ask RT0104 instead. That is why I must ask Yig to apprehend the human when it crosses into it’s state, and hold it until I can have my liaisons interrogate it._ ”

 

“ _Do you think it would be worth the effort?_ ” N’hil’eh asked, shifting closer to Dlo’Yug. Ordinarily, it would do that only during a casual conversation, when the Syorian was aching to hear a juicy a bit of gossip. But this time, N’hil’eh seemed legitimately concerned, perhaps even to a degree that bordered on desperation. It has been millennia since Hastur last asserted himself into a matter that would only concern the Aristocracy, so one could reasonably assume that the sudden arrival of RT0104 and the ambiguous spacial anomaly that heralded it in is the preamble to something that could potentially impact the Gestalt in ways nothing else ever has. Dlo’Yug sensed this, and it was plain N’hil’eh did do. Whether or not Y’m Elleaor understood was unclear—judging by the stoic, unchanging look the general wore on his scaly face—but Dlo’Yug was willing to say that that did not matter. The Deep Ones, being anthropoids, lack the scope to understand the plans of an Old One. The same could feasibly be said with Yuggothians and Syorians, but at least they were open minded enough to accept the unknown.

 

As if to assert his complete indifference, Y’m Elleaor stood, stretched it’s thick limbs, and parted with little more than a slight bow and a halfhearted “Have a good day, you two. I’ll see you in six months, with any luck.” Dlo and N’hil’eh watched, both feeling mildly offended, as the Deep One strode out of the chamber, exaggerated feet and cane tip rhythmically slapping the floor, piercing the silence with an ongoing echo that sounded much like the sound that To-Chue’s make in the dead of night. The door slid open for him, letting in the a cascade of violet light that consumed a considerable portion of the darkness whilst casting Y’m’s stark shadow across the floor in his wake. He passed through, stopped just outside the frame, and glanced back at his two fellows. A thin, humorless smile cut his face as the two glassy white orbs of his eyes seemed to drill through the near glaring light into both Dlo’Yug and N’hil’eh. There was no contempt, nor vexation, nor loathing, nor mirth, nor blitheness, nor any emotion the two patriarchs could read. Just coldness, laced with the faintest vestige of knowledge. Of what, only Yog knows. The door shut and sealed the Deep One from view as he turned to continue on to whatever affair awaited him. With him, the beams of purple from the Congressional Hub winked out of being, allowing the pitch to flow back in it’s place. Only the hum of the projector and the moonlight-like glow of the hologram remained, both of which seemed diminished in the Still atmosphere. Oddly, the room seemed darker even with the centralized pink haze, as if some imaginary sun was setting and portending the arrival of night.

 

“ _Well…_ ” N’hil’eh piped quietly. “ _I guess we have his answer. I don’t think he likes our plan one bit._ ”

 

“ _Hmm_?” Dlo’Yug was hardly paying attention when it’s brother spoke. It rounded to take in N’hil’eh solemn expression. “ _I’m sorry, did you…?_ ”

 

“ _I was just saying the obvious, of course._ ” N’hil’eh said, lightening up ever so slightly. “ _Though I wonder why he’s so reserved all of the sudden._ ”

 

“ _Oh, come on. It’s Y’m Elleaor. The day he isn’t so damn aloof is the day we should really be worried._ ”

 

The Syorian could hardly utter “ _That’s true._ ” over it’s stifled chortle.

 

“ _Besides. You’ve seen how he reacted before. He very likely sees the issue with RT0104 as a wild Zoog chase, thus he probably thinks we’ve both hit our lowest by accepting this somewhat, eh, dubious endeavor._ ” Dlo’Yug faced the Syorian, antenna turning a disarming shade of placid yellow. It struggled to keep the red of frustration from creeping in.

 

“ _Heh heh. Maybe._ ” After a pause N’hil’eh added “ _So, back to what I asked before: do you believe this will all be worth it?_ ”

 

An answer almost escaped Dlo’s vocalizer, but whatever it was it was immediately swallowed. After that, it was forgotten, leavening the Yuggothian unsure on how to continue. At the moment Dlo’Yug could not say if chasing a random human was really worth the time and resources. Maybe it was, and once they caught their leprechaun the ensuing gold will change the worlds for the better, or at least only the Aristocracy will be payed for their efforts with something trivial but nonetheless rewarding. If the chase turned out to be a waste of time, then the three kings could still live to see another day knowing that there was nothing anyone could do. The thought of Hastur being wrong or misleading it—deliberately or not—filled Dlo’s respiratory bladder with a sick feeling, not unlike that of a mass of worms flipping around in it’s bowels. Only heretics have ever called the King in Yellow a liar. Dlo’Yug would rather slice open it’s own jugulars than become one of those heretics.

 

The sprite representing RT0104 still throbbed, constantly reminding that the object of everyone’s interest was still aimlessly wondering about in the Sands of Sapphire, doing Ghroth knows what. In the past ten minutes the dot had only moved a quarter of a centimeter, which for their little “curio” was the equivalent of half a kilometer. It was still heading North.

 

N’hil’eh stood and shuffled closer to Dlo’Yug, it’s members tightly coiled against it’s thick torso. It stopped to join the Yuggothian in gazing at RT0104, using three of it’s eyes to that end while the other two—glowing red from the shadow veiled far side of it’s head—regarded Dlo’Yug with intent. “ _This_   _scares you doesn’t it?_ ”

 

“ _I cannot say._ ” Dlo finally buzzed. “ _This is all so sudden._ ”

 

N’hil’eh whined softly in remorse. “ _I’m sorry for bringing this up. I had no idea that this might have been a…a disquieting subject._ ”

 

“ _There’s nothing to be sorry for, my friend._ ” Dlo’Yug couldn’t take it’s sight off the map. “ _You’ve done your job just as you are supposed to. Hastur intended this to happen, after all. We can’t disobey him._ ” At last standing and turning it’s full attention to the crinoid, it droned “ _Look at us, making a big deal out of nothing. How silly._ ”

 

N’hil’eh let loose a hearty laugh, simultaneously killing Dlo’Yug’s budding anxiety and making the room just a little brighter. “ _I know! How childish!_ ”

 

“ _Old age is making us such drama queens, my friend._ ” Dlo’Yug laughed back.

 

“ _Ha! Fifty thousand years of being glorified bureaucrats, and now we’re just looking for something to stir things up._ ”

 

That was a fact, Dlo’Yug knew. It was sad, but true nonetheless. It couldn’t help finding humor in that.

 

N’hil’eh, beaming with his lovable, youthful joy, stuffed down his giggling long enough to say “ _Well, I hate to leave so soon—and it truly has been a pleasure catching up with you—but I have things I need to tend to…_ ”

 

“ _I understand. I too need to be on my way. I’ve got to talk to Yig soon. And the pleasure has been all mine. I’m greatly looking forward to our next meeting._ ” Dlo’Yug purred sincerely.

 

“ _Of course. As am I._ ” N’hil’eh made as if it were about to stalk off without another world, but quickly stopped and extended a wing. It’s eyes seemed to shake with hesitation before saying “ _Farewell for now._ ”

 

Dlo’Yug brushed the Syorian’s wing with it’s own, buzzing “ _Farewell. I hate that we have to part on such a hasty note_.”

 

“ _But we’ll see each other again, brother. Look, if you ever need to discuss something as questionable—or inane—as…_ ” N’hil’eh gestured at the hologram with the flick of a tentacle. “… _then you can always call me. Like you said, worrying over these things with you is my job._ ”

 

Dlo’Yug nodded, virtually smiling.

 

“ _But if you ever need to just talk…you know…about more personal things, I’m always listening._ ”

 

“ _Thank you. I’m grateful for the sentiments. I’ll surely keep that mind.”_

 

They exchanged a final, rather awkward goodbye—both reluctant to leave but neither willing to endure the silence of post-deliberation—and then vacated each other’s presence, N’hil’eh being the first to walk out. The Syorian was gone in seconds, certainly in a haste. Dlo’Yug knew N’hil’eh needed to be somewhere important, but as to where exactly, it did not know. Not until it took a casual glance at a secluded screen wavering within one of the far sides of the hologram, which exhibited a seventy-three cycle calendar and an analog clock, together showing that the current date and time was Cycle-56.B Yuloth: 00:67:99

 

56.B Yuloth. That was a day that meant something to N’hil’eh, and Dlo’Yug promptly remembered what that significance was. It was neither a holiday nor a sabbath day, but a day that N’hil’eh diligently observed every year, due solely to a tragedy that struck the Gestalt almost three hundred years ago. Dlo’Yug remembered. Dlo mostly ignored this day in history, but it was remembered with astonishing clarity. Those events, every time they rematerialized in it’s conscious like a hideous reflection in an otherwise turbulent sheet of water, clawed at the Yuggothian’s innards with the ferocity of a desperate Polyp.

 

Funny that Dlo should think of the ravenous and nameless Flying Polys in such a way. They were written down in history as the perpetrators of N’hil’eh’s woe, after all.

 

Given that knowledge, Dlo’Yug knew it’s brother would be in the Chapel.

 

Dlo’Yug gave one last look at RT0104 before switching off the hologram, feeling oddly relieves upon seeing the entire structure of pink light snuffed out of being. The drink N’hil’eh gave it, only two sips short of being full, sat on the table, the distant vapors of the Pelh-Vuos flavored rank still lingering in the air around it and the curved glass still brushing away trace amounts of the darkness with the dim phosphorescence of the yellow liquid it contained.

 

“ _Damn. I forgot to tell N’hil’eh something_.”

 

Wedging the cork back into it’s place and scooping up the delectable gift in it’s arms, Dlo’Yug skittered out and abandoned the Aristocracy’s conference chamber. From there to the Chapel, the journey would last four long minutes.


	6. 66-13

The clocks that were bolted to two pillars flanking the Chapel’s main entrance chimed a sweet and fluid melody as the thirteen hands rotated and aligned into a singular position: 01:01:01, the exact time of sunrise-VII on Earth. Befitting the birth of a new day, the clock’s ongoing ringing sounded too much like the squealing of a newborn Yuggothian as it greeted the world with innocent exuberance. The sound—as it continued and fused with the otherwise quiet ambience over the field-like deck of the Pinnacle’s outside terrace—reminded Dlo’Yug of it’s younger days, when it too used to greet the morning with a happy shout to the stars, impatiently wondering what the coming hours would bring.

 

As with any morning, the flaring purple curves of Sol-3151937 began ever so gently peeking over the horizon. The lively sun rays stretched across the sky in a single wave, bleeding across the horizon and bathing the sleeping ocean with as many violet shades as the mortal mind can conceive. The sound of the lapping waves—unobstructed by the would-be sound of aircraft engines and the near perpetual chatter of the Pinnacle’s PA system—rolled in with the crisp, salty draft, filling in the silence whenever the chimes would ebb.

 

Dlo’Yug stood there, with N’hil’eh’s Pelh-Vuos beverage rolling around in it’s anxiously shifting claws, segmented backside and tightly folded wings facing the onslaught of sunlight falling over the face of the Pinnacle, and optical antenna blankly eyeing it’s own shadow as it stretched across the floor in front of it. The elongated tip of the silhouette stopped just short of touching the gate of the Chapel. Beyond that door N’hil’eh grieved for the long gone colony 66-13 and the thousands of Syorians that died with it’s destruction, just as the royal crinoid was prone to doing on every 56.B Yuloth. As such, Dlo’Yug was prone to standing just outside the sacred chamber each and every time, grappling with the possibility of entering and interrupting it’s dear friend’s meditation under the hopes of being of some comfort. Most the time, Dlo doesn’t, and simply strides off to tend to it’s own business, deliberately ignoring the fact that it will later kick itself in the abdomen for not being there for N’hil’eh. This time, however, Dlo’Yug was trying to convince itself that it had a legitimate reason for intruding. Not only because it needed to talk with Yig’s idol, but because N’hil’eh has graciously given Dlo’Yug a gift and the Yuggothian had been so inconsiderate as to not express it’s appreciation at the time. Gently dragging it’s digits across the surface of the flask, Dlo’Yug reflected on how comforting it has been drinking the beverage the vessel contained, in addition knowing that N’hil’eh had cared enough to bring the Emperor the taste of it’s favorite delicacy from heaven knows where. Dlo’Yug turned a remorseful blue at the thought, wondering why N’hil’eh would even bother doing something so kind for someone who couldn’t even summon the decency to say “thank you”. Dlo felt it needed to amend that mistake, even if it meant waiting outside, amid the youthful cheering of clocks, for N’hil’eh to step out.

 

Taking it’s sight away from the tiles covering the floor, Dlo’Yug redirected it’s attention towards the gate. With the obsidian doors sealed tight like an octet ofscowling lips and the two clocks shining in the sunlight like a pair of peering eyes, it was like staring into an immobile yet fiercely condescending face for the Yuggothian. Juxtaposing this imaginary impression was a simple quote etched intothe protruding frame above the gate in the swirling alphabet of Carcosa: “ _It is a gracious thing to fall into the hands of the living God._ ” This was King Hastur’s own quote, and the central value to his rule. Trust in the will of the King and all thepeace and happiness one can imagine will become the reality of life in the Gestalt.

 

The chiming stopped, the last shrill note fading into the atmosphere until only the distant roaring of ocean waves and the sighing of the high-altitude wind remained. Dlo’Yug took a quick glance at Sol-3151937, duly noting that the sun had almost completely manifested above the skyline, a great glaring disk of light underscored by the bleeding bulks of morning clouds like tears beneath a vast, sorrowful eye. A full twenty minutes must have passed by as Dlo stood outside, staring like a clueless peasant. It knew it had to act soon. Why bother wasting it’s own time?

 

The shadows crawled across the monolithic surfaces of the intertwining pillars and the decorative gargoyles peering serenely from the walls of the Pinnacle, receding deeper into the many corners of the tower’s convoluted architecture as the day gradually eased from morning to noon. Yet another reminder that Dlo’Yug had to either barge in or leave.

 

 _What the hell am I going to say to N’hil’eh?_ The Yuggothian wondered, it’s wings fidgeting. Without realizing it until the pleasant sting of Pelh-Vuos began crawling around the inside of it’s feeding orifice, Dlo’Yug had absentmindedly uncorked the flask and drew a frugal sip. It’s antenna glowed pink, a delightful shiver coursing through it’s veins and spongy flesh. The beverage rolled around inside it’s mouth for a few more seconds, which Dlo’Yug took advantage of and carefully absorbed every shred of ecstasy the taste offered. Swallowing, it came to a sudden decision, knowingly ignoring the fact that it was made without the benefit of clarity or diligent thought.

 

 

… … …

 

 

The tickling smell of memorial incense and the slowly throbbing glimmer of the green chilopods stitching together the walls ruptured the sense of oblivion within the Chapel. Buoyant bubbles of glowing plasm swelled out of the segmented backs of the serpentine creatures by the hundreds, breaking free and mingling throughout the tight space until they would eventually fade and die. The Syorian lord sat grieving in silence within a tight alcove, set so deep in the wall that it almost seemed to be a separate chamber, distant from the grand room where the statues of the Great Old Ones squatted in shadow. This alcove, unlike the rest of the Chapel, was merely ameditation lodge, not intended for the worshiping of patron deities. Despite that, the graven image of Yog-Sothoth—a force worshipped only by those that accept the blind and indifferent nature of the universe as the only true divinity—leered from the back wall with an unreadable expression smoothed over the congregated circles that served as the god’s “face”. In truth, N’hil’eh was not here to pay tribute to the All-In-One nor to seek comfort in it’s entirely imagined presence. It’s only goal at the moment was to meditate in an environment of absolute serenity, and the altar of Yog-Sothoth was an ideal place to find this, being so far removed. Beneath Yog-Sothoth’s placid countenance was the circular dais that served as the altar, which was decked with a smoldering vessel of fragrant roots sitting on one side and on the other an antique singing device, the gears and bells embedded in it’s pyramid shaped bulked silent and frozen when they should have been ringing with a Syorian dirge. Between those two sat a thick tome, it’s metallic pages splayed open and blazing green in the dim light of the floating globules. It’s sole content was a catalog of all the six million victims of the Colony 66-13 massacre. Seven thousand of those victims were of Syorian decent. N’hil’eh’s own people.

 

N’hil’eh T’yo-Mulicath E’tch had been alive for no less than 1,786,885,405 years. Out of those 1,786,885,405 solar years, only one of those had ever shown the Syorian patriarch the overwhelming horror show that is commonly referred to as genocide. Sadly, that one year had taken place within the timespan of N’hil’eh’s shared rule of the Aristocracy. To be exact, it happened about three-hundred forty years ago, give or take a decade. It was on the morning of a 56.B Yuloth that the six planets that make up the 66-13 colonial system were besieged by an unprovoked Polyp attack. N’hil’eh still remembered the exact moment it first received the alert. Had it happened hundreds of years ago or hundreds of millennia, N’hil’eh will always recall that life changing call as if it had rang through it’s portable telecommunication unit just yesterday:

 

_Sender: 66-13 Defense Battalion 33_

_Recipient: Lord N’hil’eh T’yo-Mulicath E’tch—_

_Urgent:: 66-13 \ Colonial unit 1, Colonial unit 2, Colonial unit 3, Colonial unit 4, Colonial unit 5, and Colonial unit 6 are under siege. Assailants have been firmly identified as class-10 stellar/aerial assault units belonging to KINGDOM: YU’GH’HILCH-VAS// {Alias: POLYPS}. Motivations are unknown. Current body count estimate at 500,000 and rising at a rate of: 230 individuals per hour. Colonial unit 3 lockdown in process; Colonial unit 2 lockdown confirmed failure; Colonial unit 6confirmed to be destroyed._

_Please send help._

 

The story started not long before the attack, almost sixty years prior. Back then 66-13 was little more than a suburban district, consisting of four housing planets while the two that would later be subsumed were abandoned research stations being considered for repurposing. 66-13 was legally recognized as a colony, but due to the absence of proper cities, government institutions, or businesses, it was more often than not considered an oversized apartment complex. People usually only moved there as a secondary home because the parent star—a blue dwarf called Sol-50045—was said to produce the most beautiful sunrises to be seen within the Gestalt. N’hil’eh could even vouch for such a claim, for it had seen it once, long before the colony was destroyed. It could never forget the way the pyroxene clouds sparkled in the hazy morning sunlight. N’hil’eh thought it was truly sad that it will never again enjoy that view.

 

Anyhow, millions of people called 66-13 their home, and though the mornings may have been a unique sight, the days were an entirely different matter, being rife with racial tension, cloaked in a thin veil of civility. Three Kingdoms once populated the colonies: Yith, Sy-or, and the enigmatic Kingdom known formally as the Yu’Gh’hilch-Vas, though the later were commonly referred to more by their more derogative name “the Flying Polyps”. While the descendants of the Kingdom of Sy-or—being nothing more that custodians making a living in the housing complexes—initially played little part in the drama to come, the Yithians and the Polyps took center stage in an ongoing social crisis that had it’s roots in ancient history, as well as recent history. The two races hated one another, so it was believed, due to an unresolved war that had resulted in the end of the Yith Era some seventy-million years ago. The causes or finer details of this war was knowledge lost to the violent flow of time, but to anyone who has ever set pseudopod upon either one of the six colonies surfaces, it becomes immediately apparent that the Yith and the Polyps hold a deep enmity for one another, exemplified by the fact that natives of both species refuse to live within six-hundred kilometers of the opposite. Whole sections of the planets’ surfaces were cleanly cut into tightly fortified districts that housed solely Polyps or solely Yithians. They never mingled.

 

At first this bitter aversion appeared in the the eyes of the Aristocracy as nothing but a peaceful hatred; strong as the loathing between Cthulhu and Hastur, yet showing no signs of erupting into anything resembling a war. However, the two factions were very vocal. The Yithians were far from silent when it came to their true opinion on the Polyps “polluting” their “decent planets”, and the Polyps would often fire back with odd little slurs and strange, almost poetic threats. One Polyp activist named D’gll’hoo-Yuchhas—popularly known among it’s kin as “The Victim’s Eye”—once said in a rather infamous public inquiry “If entropy were law, the Yith would be all be convicts. If equality was a truth, then the Yith would be delusional.” Evidently enough, the Polyps perceived themselves as victims. But, then again, the Polyps were the main reason that the Yith are currently living in insect bodies less than half a meter in height.

 

Dlo’Yug once said that it thought it would be wise to simply evict one of the two Kingdoms and gingerly relocate them somewhere else. Which one was to receive the boot was a difficult decision, and seeing as how none of Yuggoth’s liaisons were stationed on 66-13, the Yuggothian Emperor was in no position to evaluate the situation the way N’hil’eh could. Syorian’s lived on 66-13, many of whom had a voice within Sy-or’s congress, and thus were at liberty to inform N’hil’eh indirectly of the tensions that were plaguing 66-13’s planets. As the Syorian Lord knew, there was no violence to be seen, but that was what unsettled many of the onlookers, including the Aristocracy. What was going on in the little corners of planets that neither the Aristocrats nor the Tri-Kingdom Guard could see?

 

Just as the feud between the Yithians and the Polyps was starting to reach a climax, King Hastur had done something that no one saw coming: he delegated absolute authority of the Gestalt Ethereal to the twelve governing bodies. In other words, Hastur no longer ruled the Gestalt. All decisions, no matter how minute or consequential, were left entirely into the claws and tentacles of leaders the universe over. Why the King in Yellow decided to do this was anyone’s guess. Most figured Hastur simply wanted to experiment with a new governing system, given the fact that the King had reestablish his jurisdiction two years later.

 

But because of that, for the duration of the 66-13 episode it was entirely the Aristocracy’s responsibility to make the appropriate judgements regarding the potential conflicts. However, while the King in Yellow was temporarily out of commission the Gestalt’s incontrovertible constitution still held a good deal of weight on N’hil’eh’s, Dlo’Yug’s, and Y’m Elleaor’s own power. According to the constitution, matters dealing with segregation and social relations were left entirely to the patriarch corresponding to the the Kingdom the populace in question belongs to. Because 66-13 was ensconced in a region of the galaxy legally owned by the Kingdom of Sy-or, only N’hil’eh could decide what to do with the Polyps and the Yithians.

 

Before the final decision was made, N’hil’eh and it’s cohorts shuffled through almost a dozen potential solutions, one of which was the idea of segregation. Although it was still a heated debate on who needed to go. Neither race owned the colonies, and neither race had established an irreversible operation on the planets’ surfaces or orbits. They simply lounged there, yet neither race was willing to leave. The Yithian’s were easy enough to talk to, but negotiations were a true pain in the gizzard due to their decadent, spoiled nature and utter aversion to the idea of establishing themselves anywhere else. After all, there was no other star system as hospitable to the Yithian’s fragile forms as peaceful 66-13. The Polyps, on the other hand, were truly impossible to negotiate with simply because their thoughts and reasoning made no sense to “simpler creatures” like the Syorians.

 

The singing device—hitherto inert—began ringing again, a painfully slow and sombersound like that of frozen raindrops hitting the earth. The gears turned and wheeled along the groves around the mechanism’s body, teeth scrapping at the hollow tubes of glass in the interior, sequencing a melancholy melody. Once the device started, the floating lights, being quasi-sentient and phonophobic, winked out of existence all at once, akin to the way eyes of a cadaver close seconds before death. Likewise, the chilopods slithered back into the the nooks in the walls, and the mournfully mechanical tinkling filled the void left by the destruction of the green luminescence. The incense still burned, but most of the aroma had moldered and left an unpleasant sensation stamped into N’hil’eh’s olfactory pores. Ordinarily a sturdy creature, the Syorian found it couldn’t tolerate the smell at the moment, for it reminded it too much of the rank of scorched and torn flesh, something that once corrupted the atmospheres of 66-13.It was during moments like this that N’hil’eh was prone to falling into a particular train of thought, wondering when exactly it had made the erroneous decision that led to the damnation that consumed the sexet of planets around star 50045. At what point did it make it’s most monumental mistake?

 

Dlo’Yug and Y’m Elleaor both said, quite intently, that segregation was the most logical choice to make. It would have been ideal to give the Yithians three planets and the Polyps three planets, thereafter legally forbidding the two factions from trespassing on each other’s domain. But it wasn’t their choice to make, it was N’hil’eh’s. Looking back, the Syorian had desperately wished that it had heeded it’s brothers’ advice, or at least waited until Hastur’s two year political experiment had finished.

 

By that time, though, the 66-13 vendetta had escalated, allegedly exacerbated by a small communication issue between a scientist caste Polyp and an esteemed Yithian senator. Whatever the details, the end result was a dead Yithian and a convicted Polyp that was later executed by the Yithian judicial system. After that, it was merely history. Radicalized individualsfrom both sides retaliated, at first only in ways that could be considered comparatively harmless misdemeanors—organizing rowdy protest, defacing housing facilities, barricading trade routes, destroying religious eidolons—but before long, activists on both sides began assaulting civilians belonging to the opposing faction, in attempt to make their message known. Most of these attacks were fatal. The Yithians and the Polyps wanted to evict each other from 66-13, even if it meant starting the first civil war the Gestalt has ever known.

 

Every sentient being in this side of the Gestalt knew about the these murders and those that followed, as the whole epidemic was relentlessly covered in every news and media outlet across hundreds of domains and municipalities. Fear spread like an intangible virus, and the people were wondering if their potential war would have disastrous consequences for the onlookers. All eyes were on N’hil’eh. Everyone was waiting for the leader of Sy-or to do something before the bodycount rises.

 

N’hil’eh, even to this day, will never understand why it made it’s final decision. Every time it ponders on this, the cruel fingers of shame probe at it’s insides; tentacles molesting the most sensitive depths of it’s conscious like the tentacles that mutilated and eviscerated the millions of innocents that had looked towards N’hil’eh for protection.

 

Maybe it was only a momentary lapse of reason. Maybe the younger N’hil’eh was simply more careless then. Maybe it was panic. Or maybe N’hil’eh just wasn’t meant to lead. In any case, the Syorian’s ordinarily keen memory, for once, forbid it from recalling the exact reason it did what it did. When the time came to intrude upon the 66-13 crisis, N’hil’eh decided to do exactly the opposite. It decided against segregation and civil diplomacy, and chose instead to declare 66-13 as the first and only separatist state, surrounded by but ultimately independent from the rest of the Gestalt Ethereal. Hastur could do nothing about it and neither could the other Aristocratic patriarchs. At the time, N’hil’eh thought that was the most logical course of action, closing off those colonies and letting their crisis burn itself out.

 

Immediately thereafter followed a sudden and disarming calm. 66-13 was liberated almost entirely from the Aristocracy’s control and, yet, the seething factions had not reacted at all the way most had expected. For five years—well past the day when Hastur regained his authority—neither the Yithians nor Polyps made any hostile advances. No deaths, no curses, no attacks, no rallies, no tension, no hatred, no war. It was as if the two races had reached a truce, thus laying to rest their feud. During those five years, N’hil’eh remained convinced that it had done the right thing as a leader of the Gestalt.

 

N’hil’eh hated itself for believing that.

 

N’hil’eh was in the middle of a budget negotiation conference with the Sy-or Yulithas Interplanetary Exploration Committee when that fateful message had appeared on the mobile computer it used to carry on it’s being, back when it was mandatory for all politicians to posses such devices. It took a single look, skimming the key words. N’hil’eh remembered it silently gasped, and before it had a chance to exhale it’s next breath it was already sprinting down the hall towards the nearest long-distance extension chamber, leaving the ambassadors of Yulithas befuddled and unaware of the attack that was then taking place several star systems away.

 

Coming upon the communication terminal, N’hil’eh had immediately dialed for the chief organizer of interplanetary defense, an incredibly ancient and bitter Syorian who, back then, went by the name General Yu’lio’oo.

 

The old soldier answered, and without leaving room for a proper preamble, N’hil’eh desperately whined “ _Assemble an armed response unit, immediately! There’s a crisis on 66-13!_ ”

 

It shouldn’t have been such a surprise what Yu’lio’oo said next. The general was a Syorian that knew every page and every minute declaration of _The Tri-Kingdom Guard Code of Martial Conduct_ like the cilia on it’s eyestalks. Yu’lio’oo knew the rules, and so did N’hil’eh, but that didn’t stop the patriarch from spouting off several inappropriate words when the other quoted “ _Chapter 567, Section 12, line 3,685: ‘Authorization to deploy armed forces to a legally recognized separatist state must be unanimously given by the defense secretary and the civil potentates of said state.’_ ”

 

“ _There’s no time for this!_ ” N’hil’eh had shrieked. “ _66-13’s entire government is under fire! They can’t give their authorization!_ ”

 

With the same cold, calm demeanor that juxtaposed the Syorian lord’s hysteria, Yu’lio’oo continued “‘ _In the event of an emergency, and if neither the defense secretary nor the council of potentates could be contacted, then no action is to be taken on the part of the requester. Under these circumstances, only the King of the Gestalt Ethereal is legally permitted to issue an armed occupation of the separatist state in question. Failure to comply with this law…’_ ” Here, Yu’lio’oo’s tone became very grave. “ _‘…will result in immediate and potentially fatal retribution conveyed by the King himself.’”_

 

N’hil’eh would have argued further, but it knew that everything the trusted general had just said was true. Stunned and feeling utterly crushed, N’hil’eh gawked in disbelief for a few seconds, which Yu’lio’oo patiently suffered in silence. When N’hil’eh finally found it’s voice, it only offered a meek “ _I understand._ ” before terminating communications for good. It stood there, freezing in the peaceful stagnancy of the extension chamber, simmering at the knowledge that 66-13 was enjoying no such serenity. Lightyears away, innocent beings were being torn to shreds, burned alive, or being subjected to less nameable torments, and not only was N’hil’eh powerless to do anything about it, but it also knew that it was it’s own negligence that had caused it.

 

The jarring sound of the front door creaking open roused N’hil’eh from it’s recollections, phasing the Syorian back into the present day. Shifting it’s hindmost eyestalks, it caught sight of the black shape of the central chamber, split in two by a glaringly bright strip of dawn’s sunlight, issuing forth and gradually growing out of the Chapel’s threshold as it eased opened. The creaking stopped, the door stilled and the road of light solidified into an elongated oval, slashed with the distinctive, multi-limbed, and equally elongated shadow of a Yuggothian. Before it could judge by the contorted silhouette’s mirrored arms and antenna, N’hil’eh knew the the identity of the visitor by the uniquely soft rhythm of it’s humming bio-mechanical articulators and it’s rustling wing membranes.

 

Dlo’Yug shut the door with a quiet grace that betrayed it’s desire to preserve the Chapel’s ambience, thus sealing away the sunlight once more and reducing the Emperor to a few droplets of noise in the ocean of black.

 

“ _N’hil’eh? Are you in here, my friend?_ ” Dlo’Yug whispered via the third cerebral-radio frequency, still being careful not to shatter the hush. Any creature could “hear” this greeting, given that they had the proper receptor organs. N’hil’eh, though not prone to using them, possessed such organs.

 

N’hil’eh was not at all in a jovial mood—far from it in fact—but regardless it’s heart swelled upon hearing Dlo’s droning voice and the fluttering of it’s spindly legs. “ _Hey Dlo._ ” N’hil’eh called back, flashing it’s luminescent cells and struggling to keep a cheery tone.

 

The Yuggothian appeared from around the corner, the colors smoothly swirling across it’s head marking it’s presence in the thick darkness. From the patchy pattern of those colors, N’hil’eh could tell Dlo’Yug’s nerves were in a bunch, perhaps because of that little enigma Hastur had presented to it, or maybe because it was nervous about consulting Yig, which it was undoubtedly here to do. But the Yuggothian’s expressions for bewildered and anxiety were completely different, and right now Dlo’Yug seemed to be far more anxious over something pertaining to it’s current situation. If it was the impending council with the Serpent Father that was eating away at it’s jovial colors, N’hil’eh would have been a tad baffled at the familiar flask of Yithian Pelh-Vuos blend cradled in the Yuggothian’s claws.

 

“ _I’m sorry. I hope I’m not being a nuisance._ ” Dlo’Yug droned, padding a little closer. It’s antenna flashed a brief yet profound shade of azure before regaining it’s default color.

 

“ _Of course not, brother._ ” N’hil’eh replied, curling itself to set it’s brother’s mind at ease. It scooting it’s bulk over to one side and indicating the lofty spot it has vacated with a swish of it’s tentacle. “ _Please, you’re welcome to join me. Is there something on your mind?_ ”

 

Silently, Dlo’Yug nodded and took up it’s spot next to the crinoid, brushing away the globes of plasm that pranced fairy-like across the air. N’hil’eh would have swore to Ghroth those things actually squealed when met with the menace of Dlo’s fungoid pinchers. Squatting and curling it’s limbs around it’s gaunt but rigid torso in a fashion similar to a chrysalis, Dlo’Yug seemed reluctant to answer. The Yuggothian looked from the depiction of Yog-Sothoth to N’hil’eh, then to the open book lying on the altar. There it’s attention lingered for a painfully long three seconds before eventually falling onto the luminescent flask in it’s grasp. N’hil’eh understood. Dlo was simply struggling to mentally weave it’s next words, undoubtedly trying to avoid the emotional sensitivity with 66-13’s ghosts. N’hil’eh wasn’t offended, but instead quite flattered. This Yuggothian was attempting to approach it’s brother’s melancholy with genuine consideration instead of the usual emotionless and borderline ruthless demeanor of any other Yuggoth-born politician. That almost made N’hil’eh want to embrace Dlo with all five of it’s wings, but it instead settled with exerting a patient aura as it awaited the Yuggothian’s response.

 

At length, Dlo’Yug replied “ _Well, is there anything you would like to talk about?_ ”

 

N’hil’eh locked up, and there was no chance of making that inconspicuous. Dlo’Yug noticed, it’s own sheepish expression making it’s alarm quite clear. N’hil’eh felt the sudden need to amend it’s gaffe, but instead of coming up with a legitimate answer on the spot, it instead bantered “ _Is there anything you would like to talk about?_ ”

 

“ _But I asked is there anything you would want to talk about?_ ” Dlo’Yug promptly responded with such sudden friskiness that it caught the Syorian off guard. It had no idea what else to do but continue the joke.

 

“ _But…I asked first. What do you want to talk about?_ ” N’hil’eh piped musically.

 

“ _No, you got it wrong. I asked first. What do you want to talk about?_ ”

 

“ _You’ve got this backwards. What do you want to talk…_ ” N’hil’eh briefly broke down in a fit of laughter before putting itself back to together. “ _Want to talk about?_ ”

 

“ _No, you?_ ”

 

“ _Seriously. What do you want to talk about?”_

 

“ _Come on. I…what do you…?_ ” Dlo’Yug’s antennae pulsed mirthfully. “ _You know what? I’ll go first._ ”

 

“ _Alright_.” N’hil’eh curled. It looked at the carving of Yog-Sothoth and idly wondered if the All-In-One was comfortable with these two aristocrats jesting like larvae in it’s virtual presence. It’s a was stupid thought, though. Yog never never gave a blorp about bugs like Dlo and N’hil’eh.

 

“ _Listen, N’hil’eh. I just wanted to thank you for this._ ” Dlo’Yug confessed, tapping the flask. A jubilant sound resounded from beneath the glass. “ _I forgot to do so earlier, and I couldn’t stand the idea of going our separate ways without letting you know how much this means to me._ ”

 

“ _There’s no need for you to worry yourself over that, Dlo._ ” N’hil’eh cooed. _“I did that solely because I knew it would make you happy. So long as it did just that, then I’m perfectly satisfied.”_

 

Blushing, Dlo’Yug continued. “ _I really am serious about this. There’s no one else in existence who would have gone to those lengths for me and…well…N’hil’eh, since I can’t repay you in kind right now, I at least wanted to leave you with the thought that you’ve really made me happy today. Much happier than I’ve been in quite awhile. More than that actually, you’ve made me feel…damn, how do I put this? I think you’ve made me feel important._ ”

 

N’hil’eh understood more than anyone how terrestrial emotions were a difficult thing for Yuggothians to articulate. It could only imagine how conflicted the Emperor must be feeling, trying to put to words a set of thoughts that it couldn’t have ever fathomed prior to first meeting a Syorian. N’hil’eh even went so far as to consider if Dlo’Yug could fathom those emotions even now. They were born from two separate species that evolved on two separate star systems that were universes apart. If it was one thing that was more difficult to conceive than the idea of those two species ever establishing a steady political relationship it was the idea of individuals of those two species ever establishing a lasting personal relationship. The more passionate N’hil’eh tries every day to make their friendship work, but Dlo’Yug does more than that. It legitimately struggles to maintain that same relationship, and possibly at the expense of it’s sanity, as N’hil’eh feared. In hindsight, all those times that N’hil’eh and Dlo’Yug ever found themselves in an awkward hush in lieu of a conversation—much like the two instances they were forced to face today—made perfect sense. For Dlo’Yug, taking to N’hil’eh was like willingly stepping from it’s own world into an alien realm. “ _I think the word you’re looking for is ‘loved’._ ” N’hil’eh gingerly offered.

 

“ _You might be right._ ” After a pause, Dlo said. “ _You are definitely right_.”

 

“ _Look, brother._ ” N’hil’eh beamed, placing a tentacle on Dlo’Yug’s arm. The Yuggothian visibility shivered at the touch, but in an odd way that spoke of comfort. “ _You understand what ‘love’ is. Otherwise I don’t think you would have said what you just said.”_

 

Dlo stirred as if to offer a rebuke, but stilled it’s vocalizer, it’s antenna burning pink.

 

N’hil’eh continued. “ _You are the only one among your species, I believe, that would ever go out of it’s way to express it’s appreciation over a common beverage. And to me that speaks volumes about the truly unique character you are. Besides, you’ve done a lot of good in my life. You granted my people a place in the Gestalt, saving us from the destruction of the old universe. You granted me a place in the Aristocracy, even knowing that you could have governed this corner of space all on your own…_ ”

 

“ _Well, that’s not entirely true._ ” Dlo’Yug croaked. “ _The Syorians were a crucial factor in felling the Tsan-Chan Empire._ ”

 

“ _Maybe in retrospect, but we both know you could have nuked the Chanians with your own arsenal. If not with that, then certainly with the aid of Ithaqua or Tsathoggua. But that’s not my point, though. You changed my life, and I’m eternally grateful for that.”_

 

“ _And you’ve changed mine as well._ ” Dlo’Yug paused, shifting it’s attention towards the catalogue lying on the altar. It registered several clan names common to the Syorian Empire—Gh’sil-Nott, Fuil-Sotch, Duurath, N’o’lysa, Aattzva-Cha—all deeply etched into the bleak mausoleum-like surface of the pages. A few of which Dlo’Yug recognized as those belonging to custodian chiefs who, during life, were known for their hands-on involvement with the 66-13 crisis. Others Dlo recognized as tier 1.77 aristocrats sharing N’hil’eh’s parental prefix. Knowing that N’hil’eh had family that died with the Yithians only made it more obvious that it had to shift the conversation back in it’s intended direction. “ _Listen, N’hil’eh. I just want you to know that none of this is your fault.”_

 

The Syorian seemed to misunderstand for a fleeting moment, for it’s tendrils contorted in confusion as it admitted “ _Well that’s quite an odd thing to say, Dlo. I kind like to thing changing your life is…_ ” But as it analyzed the situation in a broader scope it quickly fathomed what the Yuggothian had meant to say.

 

Dlo’Yug recoiled ever so slightly as the entire ensemble of N’hil’eh’s members—eyes, wings, arms, and all—tightened against it’s thick tube-like body. The only limb that strayed was the single crinoid hand that promptly shot out and seized the metallic book that had captivated it’s attention before. That arm, with book in hand, very quickly joined the others in the deep ridges of the Syorian’s body, just as the adorning teal stripes dimmed and exhaled an air of shame. “ _I don’t want to talk about that._ ” N’hil’eh whispered like an abashed larva.

 

“ _I’m sorry, I did not mean to open old wounds like that._ ” Dlo’Yug apologized, exerting an equally guilty glow. “ _And I’m not going to make you talk about it either. I just wanted to remind you that what happened to 66-13 is in no way your fault. I hate to see you like this._ ”

 

“ _But it was, Dlo!_ ” N’hil’eh harshly whistled with a suddenness that startled Dlo’Yug. “ _If I had done what you had told me to do, then they would still be alive. I shoved them aside, cut them off from my protection, and when they needed it the most, I was powerless to do anything._ ”

 

“ _You did exactly what you thought you needed to do, though._ ” Dlo’Yug droned softly, wrapping a wing around it’s brother’s taunt form. “ _In fact, you gave them the space they needed to sort out their problems. In hindsight that seemed to be a much more appropriate approach than simply shoving them in separate play pens. We would have been treating them like children, instead of the civilized beings that they were. That’s no way to end a war._ ”

 

“ _They ‘sorted’ their problems out for five whole years before they lapsed back into madness, Dlo. If anything, cutting them off only ended their war in the most irresponsible way feasible._ ”

 

“ _Now, N’hil’eh, we don’t for sure know if the Polyp attack had anything to do with their old war. I find it pretty odd that they were able to tolerate each other for half a decade before one of them suddenly decided to commit genocide._ ” It was only after carelessly uttering that last word that Dlo’Yug realized just how enormously insensitive it’s supposed reassurance really was.

 

N’hil’eh’s five crimson eyes rounded on Dlo’Yug like comets and drilled into the Yuggothian with a ferocity thar made it jump. With a harsh squeal of it’s voice, nearly venomous in it’s austerity, N’hil’eh said “ _Dlo, a whole planet was destroyed, and several others condemned, made uninhabitable. An entire race is now on the edge of extinction and another in it’s entirety is locked within the core of a prison planet. If that wasn’t bad enough, millions of innocent bystanders were either harmed or outright slaughtered for no reason. Too many of those victims were close relatives of mine, Dlo’Yug, so many in fact that their names fill a whole volume.”_ It flashed the 66-13 victim’s catalogue for emphasis. “ _And you really expect me to take solace in the fact that we have no celestial clue why the Polyps even razed 66-13 in the first place? It’s like you haven’t been paying any attention at all! It doesn’t matter why the Polyps did it because, regardless of the reason, people are dead!Whole families—my families!—wiped out of existence right in front of my eyes, during my watch. Their fates were upon my shoulders and I let them down. Reword this whole dilemma however you wish, but that doesn’t change the fact that I had a single job to do and I failed at it._ ”

 

“ _You didn’t fail._ ” Dlo’Yug attempted to assure once again, but N’hil’eh ignored it. The Syorian fell into a stark silence for a moment, eyes wet with melancholy and staring vacantly into space. It clutchedthe book so tightly that Dlo’Yug could hear the tips of it’s tentacles scrapping across the metal binding. It was in this short interval that Dlo mentally cycled through dozens of potential things to say, yet not one of them escaped it’s vocalizer. The Yuggothian had the heavy feeling that, no matter what, nothing it could say would make N’hil’eh feel any better, much less successfully express any consolation. Dlo’Yug could tell that, all along, N’hil’eh understood the struggle of a child of Yuggoth when it came to concepts such as “remorse” or “sympathy”, “sorrow”, “guilt”. Even death was something that no Yuggothian ever regards as anything more extreme than a simple, natural concept. If a Yuggothian dies, none of it’s fellows ever pays a moment’s thought, and that’s entirely due to the fact that Dlo’Yug’s incalculably ancient species has long since accepted death as the logical and inevitable end to a comparatively insignificant life. That has never warranted depression, not to Dlo’Yug and not to any other fungoid. But the Syorian’s and their “bastard children”, the anthropoids, were an entirely different case when it came to the mortal views on death. So different, in fact, that Dlo’Yug and all other ambassadors were forced to reevaluate their cultural approach to the concept when met with these terrestrials. It found the idea both confusing and intriguing that any being would fear and hate the end of life with such an extreme passion, pinning almost their entire emotional spectrum to a life-long fight against the ultimate destruction of the their bodies and the dispersion of their souls.

 

But whereas fretting over the death of the self was, back then, understandable to a degree, Dlo’Yug had entered into a relationship with N’hil’eh completely perplexed that the Syorians and their ilk were prone to coming unraveled when someone else died. Looking at N’hil’eh now reinforced that impression. The Syorian sat at the altar, seized and rigid, distant and somber, afraid of the mistakes of the past and yet blaming it’s self for them; a black hole sucking in the semi-nostalgic bliss that the Chapel should have endowed, and expelling in it’s place a wave of desperation, such overwhelming sadness. The deaths of others had crippled the poor creature. Dlo’Yug could easily understand that genocide on unprecedented scales were a bad thing, especially if it poses a threat to the Empire as whole, but the destruction of 66-13 was a loss the Aristocracy could cope with. It was a retirement community inhabited by slugs that contributed little to the Gestalt’s machine. Even the Syorians were ultimately expendable. And yet here was N’hil’eh, three-hundred years later, unable to surrender the notion that the fault was entirely it’s own.

 

Dlo’Yug could never hope to fully understand it’s brother the way it wanted to. But that’s why it liked—no, loved—N’hil’eh with such a passion. Talking to N’hil’eh was like reading the most extravagant piece of speculative prose. This Syorian in particular offered Dlo’Yug an alien way of examining the universe, and thus it had faith that N’hil’eh had the limitless potential to teach it things that would better the Yuggothian Planetary Empire, the Aristocracy, the Gestalt, and, ultimately, itself.

 

However difficult it may have been, Dlo’Yug had to shove aside the bigger picture and focus only on the crinoid at it’s side. N’hil’eh was hurting, and if the Gestalt was to become any better than it’s chosen leaders must be healed.

 

“ _I am nothing. I am no leader._ ” N’hil’eh lamented, seeming to forget Dlo’s presence. “ _How the gods could have been so cruel to the universe as to allow my continued occupation of this role, I may never know. If I my judgement is so flawed, then I’m unworthy to be a patriarch. Really, I don’t even deserve to live. I have blood on my sinews, put there because I was too naive and foolish to know that it was blood in the first place. And to this day, everyone—even Hastur—insists that I simply wash away the stains and forget about it. Is that really what’s supposed to justify as peace to an enforcer or civility?_ ” It let the question hang in the air, and Dlo was far too hesitant to answer. N’hil’eh plummeted into a more pervasive silence, as if it had died and become indistinguishable from the stone walls of the alcove. The illusion was strengthened by the floating bubbles, the light of which cast both the Syorian and the walls in a muted green pallor, making the two blend together.

 

Again, Dlo’Yug found itself brainstorming a thousand things to say which it hoped would mend the moment. But Dlo knew every one of those things were wrong because they were all things it had previously heard from the hollow voices of fellow Yuggothians. Dlo’Yug almost considered saying something along the lines of “If this was truly your fault, you would have been tried as a mass murderer”, but restrained itself knowing that would be of little comfort. That was too logical, too detached, too emotionless, too _Yuggothian_. Dlo’Yug needed to speak to N’hil’eh like another Syorian.

 

At last, it realized how to do this.

 

Dlo’Yug beamed, hoping it’s gay colors would banish some of the miasma of despair. It wrapped two of it’s wings around the Syorian’s trunk, gently brushing N’hil’eh’s stony skin with it’s cilia. When N’hil’eh finally lifted it’s still-heavy gaze and turned to meet Dlo’Yug’s, the Yuggothian wordlessly offered it the glass flask. The Syorian eyed the vessel with discomfort for a moment before it slowly grabbed the beverage and chirped a quiet “ _Thank you._ ” It took a timid sip, just enough to get a fleeting taste. Afterwards a warm expression smoothed over it’s appendages and it’s eyes seemed to brighten ever so slightly.

 

“ _You know, N’hil’eh,_ ” Dlo’Yug said, choosing it’s words carefully. “ _Earlier I asked you why you would give me a gift like that, and you said that you did it just to make me happy. Come to think of it, I understood what you meant, because now I want to see you happy. I know you’re in pain right now, and while I’m not confident I’ll ever be able to help you to the extent that I wish, I at least want to say that seeing you this way really hurts me. I’ve known you for so long. You’ve always been the brightest and most uplifting thing in my life, and so beholding you in such a state of remorse is like watching the suns die a slow death. You’re important to me, but better still you’re important to the Gestalt and it’s people. A long time ago, a friend of mine once said that sometimes our greatest victory is merely assuring that we have a tomorrow. We’ll never be perfect. Neither of us. And I for one will never think any less of you for being less than perfect. And we’ve both made mistakes. But those mistakes happened, wether we like it or not, and there’s nothing us mortals nor the gods will ever be able to do to change that. But if we have a tomorrow, we have a chance. We still have children to protect and a future to build._

_“N’hil’eh, if you still consider yourself unworthy, I would beg to differ. You’re alive, and you’re still capable of doing the right thing. And to the people of your Kingdom that’s all they need to know in order to believe that they are in good hands. If you still consider yourself unworthy, then that means you can learn from your mistakes and change for the absolute better._

_“But if you want to know the truth, I don’t care what you do, or how far you fall. Through dark and light, failure and triumph you’ll always be the N’hil’eh that I love. Let the universe burn, I’ll be there for you._ ”

 

For a terrifying moment, it seemed as if Dlo’Yug’s words had fallen on deaf ears. Dlo feared that it had said something wrong, and internally cursed itself as a it’s a bloody fool as it waited for N’hil’eh to stir.

 

Still devoid of mirth, one of the Syorian’s eyes stalks lifted with a heavy grace and started down the Yuggothian. The other four remained tucked away. “ _Do you mean that?_ ” N’hil’eh whistled, so softly that it’s query could have been mistaken for the sound of a short-lived breeze.

 

“ _Of course I do. Not even Lord Has–_ “ Dlo’Yug stopped and reined in it’s blaspheme before it could be fully voiced. N’hil’eh didn’t seem to notice, or perhaps it understood Dlo’s trepidation. “ _Only myself and Lord Hastur would ever be able to understand how important you are to me.”_

 

Again, N’hil’eh said nothing. Instead it had passed the flask back to Dlo’Yug, letting out a low sigh. Dlo’Yug’s neurons went cold upon thinking about what this simple act is supposed to imply. Was this a rejection of Dlo’s regifting? A rejection of Dlo’s consolation? An urging for Dlo to leave it’s presence. However, it’s nervousness burned away in an instant when N’hil’eh’s form loosened and the Syorian wrapped a tentacle tightly around one of Dlo’s utility claws. But it wasn’t the tight grip of fear or anger, but a firm yet cherishing embrace. N’hil’eh’s skin was pleasantly warm against the cold surface of Dlo’Yug’s exoskeleton. With a shiver, Dlo noted that it’s partner’s sinuous fingers seemed to settle perfectly within the knots of it’s own serrated nippers.

 

 _“I love you too._ ” N’hil’eh said, it’s teal stripes flaring beautifully once again.

 

The two leaned into one another, their wings curling together like the young petals of a flower. The outer coldness of Dlo’Yug’s near mechanical body and the heat of the crinoid’s complex engine of a body mingled in the slim space between them. Dlo’Yug and N’hil’eh—both sensing that they were thinking the same thing—internally mused on how that mixture of hot and cold was somehow a unique occurrence, happening only when those two were at each other’s sides. They savored that thought.

 

For a time—several hours that neither of them bothered to count—they watched the elegantly dancing nimbuses together. The singing device started again on it’s own accord, filling the moment with the chiming notes of one of N’hil’eh’s favorite songs, “The Sleeping Truths of Andromeda”.

 

Dlo’Yug wondered if, perhaps, now would be the optimal time to tell N’hil’eh _it’s_ truth. Resolving to say nothing, it thought not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a weird-ass chapter.


	7. Day 100

_I dreamed that I was at the beach again, the one that was too familiar for comfort. The sky was pink and purple, the seas smooth as a vast pane of glass, the sun like a crimson blemish, and the sand black as human ashes. It was very cold, despite the fact that the lands on the far away horizon were in flames. Smoke blackened the atmosphere, taking with it the low hanging moon._

_I was impaled—strung with like a decaying scarecrow—upon an off-looking structure that consisted chiefly of crisscrossing stakes driven into the sand. The senselessly arranged spikes skewered me in several places—my right hand, left leg, neck, both shoulders—but the most painful was the large, splintered point that ran through my stomach, firmly fixing me to the beach like a needle holding down a bug. My entrails were like garlands woven around the spike, reeking of drying blood and shit. Somehow, though, I was alive, albeit barely._

_All around me nude revelers danced and shouted in a way that suggested that they were caught in the ecstasy of a ritual, apparently believing me to be some kind of goddess. I was in too much pain to pay attention to them. In any case, their shapes were obscured by the glare of the flames. That is, until they approached me. When they grabbed me—groping my unclothed body with the zeal of mentally numbed children playing with clay—I saw that they were not people at all. I have no name for them, but whatever they were they had no faces, but only a flabby mass where a countenance should be. The knotted heads palpitated every time they spoke, but they didn’t speak with words. Instead reedy whistles issued from the dripping holes that could only remotely be considered a mouth. They had thick, mold-like hair carpeting their necks and chests, and boneless, noodle-like arms terminating with rigid claws resembling crescents. Worst of all was their crotches. Instead of genitals, they had throbbing masses protruding from between their legs, which, I saw, had salivating mouths that vacantly hung open._

_These obscene beasts firmly held me, yet ever so gently pried me off the structure. My flesh tore and crumbled into powder that scattered in the winds, but there was no more pain. All the agony simply melted away as those things reverently chanted my name, over and over again. “Clair…Clair…Clair…Clair…”. The syllables where heavily distorted by their whistling voices, but their deformed dicks filled in for whatever their heads couldn’t pronounce._

_They carried me slowly toward the ocean, carefully lowering my body into the water. My being disinterested in the waves as they sensuously lapped over me. I tried not to panic, but as I watched—somehow from a bird’s eye perspective—as I gradually became nothing but powder mixed with the silt, I began to cry. My tears burned like magma on my wizened face. And glowed like it too. I knew I was going to die._

_For a few more seconds I remained aware, during which I watched my worshippers undergo a metamorphosis. They sprouted horns, and beady eyes bubbled out of their faces. Wide grins cut their heads in two. I realized that they were satyrs. I have no idea how I knew that, but I found them familiar._

_Far above, like a man gazing upon ants, there was a twisting, swaying tower, surmounted by a head, inset with twin eyes that blazed and glared in a way that reminded me of a duo of dying suns. It’s wings stretched across the sky and the myriad of arms bridged the earth and the god’s celestial bulk. I can never know for sure, but I think it knew me. Knew my name._

_The satyr things with the hungry phalluseshowled a deranged laugh. Flowing uselessly from the soft stone that was once my skull, my eyes became ash in my sockets, and my tongue became sand in my jaws, but still I leered back at the Lich Daemon in the sky and screamed_ “CLEH’RE!”.


	8. Beating Heart of the Forest

“That’s a fucking oak tree. Isn’t it?” Clair asked herself out loud, running her bloodshot eyes up and down the thick wooden shaft that was—against every bit of expectation—an actual, living tree. With leaves, branches, and all. In fact there were thousands of them, hundreds of thousands maybe, thrown all across the hills in an anomalous forest that must have looked like a green mole on the face of the scorched planet. Was this really the only _normal_ forest on Earth? The only one that wasn’t composed of either glass, fungus, slime, or tentacles?

 

“No. It can’t be.” She dismissed with a scoff and a sardonic grin, rubbing a hand across the bark, unable to believe the coarse texture of the surface or the shallow cuts they left on her fingertips. Three months spent in hell, and all of the sudden there’s a perfectly healthy expanse of wood.It had to be a hallucination. Or maybe a herd of Dark Young in disguise. Maybe the trees were made of plastic, set here by the Old Ones as some kind of museum exhibit, maybe to remind them of the days when two-legged ants ruled the Earth.Anything, at this point, was more believable than the existence of a real and completely non-extinct tree.

 

A sharp wind whipped up and knocked a flock of leaves out of the branches, letting them rain down to the ground with a slow and quiet grace. The more rational (or the more repudiating, whichever made more sense) part of her mind disregarded the swaying green blurs as little more than the dimensionally misplaced wings of “space butterflies”, a violently erratic species of creatures she had the honor of fighting off once or twice in the past. Sure, a few space butterflies were sitting atop some fake tree in a fake forest in the middle of nowhere, and when the breeze decided to shift they all hopped in union to the ground and from there will most likely pounce upon the hapless woman and drag her still screaming head into whatever parallel reality they flapped from. That was the kind of thing Clair had seen before, too many times to count in fact, but not a single oak tree. Not since her rebirth.

 

She skimmed the forest floor, taking in the carpet of leaves in varying stages of decay. Thousands of browns and reds and yellows, totally covering the powdery ground she was used to seeing. The leaves that had fallen—her inert space butterflies—were scarce and random in their scattering, but nonetheless their spade-shaped curves and bright greens stood out in arresting relief.

 

“They sure as hell look like leaves.” Clair chortled. She felt like a dumbass, standing there in the middle of the woods, staring at ordinary leaves and wondering if they were real. It still felt like a perfectly sane thought—the notion that those leaves would purge her of her blood any second now and leave her carcass to rot with the detritus—but whenever she stepped outside of her questionable mindset for even a moment and viewed herself from another angle, so to speak, she kept seeing the spectacularly embarrassing image of a middle aged oriental woman gawking at a bunch non-lethal leaves. She was either coming unhinged or she was always this stupid.

 

On impulse, she reached out and scraped off a piece of bark. She rolled the crumbling mass between her fingers as her head turned every which way, looking from one uniformed tree to another. There were dozens of others surrounding her hall tall and green and brown and completely bewildering in their unexceptionableness, especially when one notices that these plants are positioned beneath a sky teeming with immense stars and extravagant planets that looked as if they were just one cosmic breeze away from crashing into one another.

 

Her stomach growled, clenching its dried-out self in the depths of her emaciated form. Responding to her tummy’s pathetic bitching, her ribs seemed to press against her tightened skin and her perpetually voided bowels flexed. Yet another reminder of how weak hunger has made her. First her body body succumbs to a living decay, and eventually her mind will too. Just ask the space butterflies.

 

As if acting on it’s own accord her hand swiftly tossed the bark in her mouth, and her teeth—also against her will—munched down on it as if it were an orange. Is was only after feeling the filthy tasting grit against her gums that she seriously wondered why she just ate a piece of a tree, but she was too damn hungry to even consider spitting out her snack. She swallowed what little she could and resumed examining the tree. It looked real, felt real, and now that she had tasted it too Clair was almost convinced that the tree was real.

 

“What the fuck am I doing?!” She screamed, drool laced with bark bits flowing past her cracked lips. She wasn’t sure why she was so angry, but nonetheless she started assaulting her botanical companion with useless questions and then with her first, striking the trunk with a kind of ferocity that almost rivaled the tempest of confusion turning her mind backwards, upside down, and inside out. Nothing made sense anymore. Nothing. Not her, not this planet, and certainly not this completely random forest. If her loneliness and the absolutely crushing sense of pointlessness that had outlined her brand new life didn’t completely her drive towards insanity, it was this taunting little piece of familiarity in a world that wasn’t her own. She was sick beyond all hope, lost somewhere in the murk where it was all but impossible to know up from down. So why not take out her frustration?

 

She continued to pummel the tree, repeating a sharp “Fuck you!” with each crazed punch. The chipping trunk scrapped away at the delicate flesh on her knuckles, but she refused to stop. Blood ran in microscopic trickles down her fingers, and grains exploded outward with each strike. When a surprisingly large piece of bark the size of her head finally broke away and landed at her feet, she mindlessly seized it and chucked it in a random direction, howling in fury. The bark arched through the air in a way that inexplicably made Clair even more angry before it landed on a smooth and rounded boulder, shattering into pieces.

 

She almost continued her tantrum, but stopped when she saw the boulder stir, shifting it’s modest bulk from side to side like an animal making itself comfortable. She didn’t think—not that that was a mayor change—she only directed her hatred at the painfully mundane rock, eyeing it with such intensity, bewailing “Great! Now rocks are coming alive!”

 

As if wanting to distance itself from the disturbed woman (or wanting to further spite her, which, at this point, Clair was willing to believe) the rock started sliding away, pushing through rotting leaves, twigs, and soil at such sluggish pace that Clair was able to easily grab the stone and halt it in it’s tracks. The cold thing shivered in her tensed fingers as she laughed, pondering on how she was going to make her prize pay for the crime of existing. She barely heard the stone quietly hum in protest as she began prying it off the ground with ease. It wasn’t even half as heavy as she thought it should be, and that made her cackle even harder. She lifted the stone over head with the intention of dashing the damned thing with what little strength she had. After all, if the act killed her she would at least die with the knowledge that her last deed was the execution of one of Earth’s parasites.

 

“Fucking moving rocks!” She bellowed. “You don’t deserve to live! This is my planet! Mine! Heh ha! Ha ha ha… eh?” Something compelled her to look up. She expected to see a mirror image of the rock’s top on the bottom, more dirty grey smoothness with no means of locomotion. That would have been illogical. What she did see, however, was logical. From the underside dangled the members of what can reasonably be considered a bloated scorpion, with a few limp pseudopods, thick tufts of hair rimming the edges, and six stubby feet scattered around. In the dead center of the amalgam was a flapping tongue decked out with with sharp teeth and several bright yellow eyes that all stared at it’s baffled captor with the same “What the fuck is going on?” look that she was beaming at the tree. Turns out the rock was actually the carapace of an ordinary bug. Who would have guessed?

 

“Aw, fuck…” she cursed right before the creature shocked her by twisting itself free from her grasp and descending upon her bug eyed face. It’s claws instantly went to work boring into the sides of her head, with nippers pinching her earlobes and tentacles coiling around her throat. Most frighteningly, though, was the fact that her vision was utterly smothered by the creature’s hideous nether side, leaving her blind and venerable to everything else around her. As her hands quickly fell on the thing’s molesting appendages, she shrieked and thrashed like a madwoman, but the bug shrieked back with it’s own bell-like screaming. It shot it’s teeth-and-eyes tongue past Clair’s lips and started shoving it’s way down her throat, threatening to spread her jaws to their breaking point. She could feel it’s teeth digging ravines in her tongue and peeling away at her gums. Somehow, she could also feel the thing’s eyes staring at her innards as it wormed it’s head inside her. Suffocating, she collapsed backwards and her head thumped against a tree. Despite being disoriented, she was somehow able to remember that she was in possession of a weapon. She jerked her laser rifle out of it’s holster and crammed the nozzle against her parasite. Finger on the trigger, praying to whatever god was listening she doesn’t accidentally blast off her own face.

 

She mentally counted to three, closed her eyes and fired. Astylvere expelled a thunderous bolt of energy, sending a shockwave wave of bluish electrical beams and musically piercing screams as the shot shoved the creature off of her and sent it soaring into the air. It’s tongue was dragged out with dizzying force, but miraculously did little damage to her mouth. The only injuries to remind her of this unpleasant kiss was a lightly shredded tongue and a deep cut on her bottom lip. She could feel the blistering heat redden her cheeks and forehead, in addition to the clammy but warm splash of blood washing over her like disgusting holy water. She was also blinded—retinas temporarily shot with countless floaters by the gun’s blast—and her earns were wracked with a persistent ringing, but at least she was rid of the bug.

 

When her vision returned, she stood and beheld what was left of the creature, smoldering against the foot of a tree a few meters away. Shuffling closer she saw that the carapace, despite looking like a rock, was apparently as brittle as an egg shell, with viscera-drenched shards scattered all around the carcass. The scorched wound was large enough for Clair to put her entire leg through, and constantly belched smoke and purple blood mist. No doubt her adversary was dead.

 

The sight of freshly killed meat aroused her appetite again, and Clair found herself wondering if this creature, unlike most of the others she had encountered before, was edible. It had too many limbs, too many eyes, and the scattered sinews had a rancid look that almost discouraged her, but the starving animal inside her ignored the deterrents and steered her body closer to the cooked mass. She grabbed a thick claw and wrestled it free from the rest of the creature. It snapped off with a sound and smell like that of a putrefying fish being torn open and wiggled in her hand for a brief second as if it were trying to fight back one last time. Clair wrapped her lips around the open end and sucked out every bit of blood and meat and water she could before savagely shoving her tongue into the empty exoskeleton and lapping up the rest. In her brief but pleasurable reverie, she mused over how the creature had violated her with it’s tongue only to have it’s prey turn the tables and do the same to it. Sweet irony.

 

But the enjoyment only lasted until the sticky, strongly bitter taste of the thing’s flesh struck her. It was less like eating meat and more like eating heated glue; the creature’s essence seemed to chew away at her innards like acid. When it finally struck her stomach, every bit of her spasmed in panic and before she knew it what little contents she held within her fired out of her mouth with burning force. She wanted to vent her overflowing rage at loosing the first chance she had at feeding herself in weeks, but that feeling quickly took the backseat when she saw that her smoldering puke happened to land right in the creature’s yawning wound. Giggling and wiping some spittle off her bloody chin, she tried thinking up a better way to say “Fuck you” to something that had just tried to kill her. She really couldn’t.

 

… … …

 

As Clair strolled onward—slowing to a near painful crawl, staggering in her hungered state—the forest seemed to become both more graphic and more surreal; graphic because the colors and shapes of the peacefully reposing trees seemed to grow more diverse, and surreal because, well, the scenery was growing more diverse. She was still unwilling to put in faith in these dense woodlands were real. She ended up conditioning herself into believing the illusion would dissolve any second now and leave her with the cold desolation she had grown used to, but instead the illusion became more blunt, seeming to pull her deeper into this eerily serene daydream. The green fluff at the treetops whispered when the air moved like a lithely shifting tide, and the severed fingers of dead plants snapped dryly beneath her lethargic footsteps, but as the day crept closer to a close and the boundaries of the forest started looking nonexistent, she noticed that one particular noise was predictably absent: the sounds of animals. No squirrels tittering, nor birds chirping, nor cicadas rasping, nor dragons hooting, nor wolves braying. In fact, aside from that one rock monster, the woods seemed entirely devoid of fauna. Oddly, she found this somehow comforting. It wasn’t lost on her that she was loosing her grip on reality, even before she watched the landscape phase from black to green. She spent hours at a time wondering if she was trapped in a nightmare—or maybe an extension of The Dream Path—but regardless there was a certain consistency to her trek that felt too real for a dream; a consistency that the forest threw off. Plainly enough, life as Clair knew it was extinct and replaced by beings of an entirely different biological order, and that was a reality she had learned to accept. Hearing none of a bird’s blissful singing was yet another stark if slightly depressing reassurance that she was still somewhere on Earth. However, the forest itself still remained an enigma. Hours into her hike, she finally resigned herself into a state confusion, knowing that no matter what the world’s logic would be forever beyond her own idea of logic. She knew she was never a very bright bulb. Thinking too hard about wild shit like “Why are the stars so bright and so big, yet so cold?” would eventually drive her even further into madness, and since Clair’s now at the point where she’s yelling at trees and gaining pleasure from vomiting on dead bugs, she would rather not find out what she’d do if she miraculously became even more insane.

 

But the absence of living things also served as a reminder for another crippling fact: she was alone. Plants and Old Ones alike would never listening to her, and never acknowledge that she was here. That’s what humans are for, but they are extinct, a truth that Nyarlathotep made sure to shove Clair’s nose in. Despite not clearly remembering a meaningful encounter with another person, Clair had a pristine understanding that the void she felt in her life now is where the memories and feeling of would-be friends and family should be. With no experience in socializing under her belt, she knew that was why her mind was deteriorating, why she concerned herself with the insults of a common tree. As terrifying as that was, what really made her shiver and cringe was imagining what would happen if she ever accomplished her dream of reuniting with mankind and finding away out of her meaningless life. Would she be open, friendly, and warm or taciturn and violent, rotted away into an animal living in a self-centered delusion? Would she embrace or kill?

 

A gleam of white ensconced in a nearby bush caught her eye, breaking the monotony of browns and greens. It crossed her mind that it could have been yet another rock creature, but she felt compelled to investigate nonetheless. With one hand wrapped around Astylvere and the other shoving aside the flimsy mess of branches and briar, she leaned in and saw a bleached dome jutting out the moist forest mat, specks of dirt and small twigs orbiting like a dirty halo. It didn’t take long for Clair to figure out what she was looking at, for the sepulchral pallor and slightly scored surface was dishearteningly familiar. She remembered, minutes after arriving on Earth, Nyarlathotep had showed her a relic exactly like this.

 

Disregarding any possibility of respecting the dead, she used the toe of her boot to nudge the skull out of it’s earth-bath. The soil caked face—with sockets overflowing with wet dirt and all but two teeth missing—rolled over to vacantly regard the woman who disturbed it’s rest. Looking closer, Clair saw a few bulges in the ground around the morbid vessel, all with the same battered complexion. Dragging her foot across the leaves and forest blend, she revealed a couple of ribs, an upper arm, a shoulder blade, a few tiny fragments that might have been fingers and one point. This one appeared to have belonged to an adult, albeit one with quite a few deformities. The eye sockets were queerly wide, ribs bent at too sharp an angle, and the bone that were evidently supposed to be the upper arm were far too long, even longer than a femur. Maybe it could have been due to her ever accelerating fall from reality, but Clair felt deep in her gut that these were the remains of a human being, despite it looking more that those of a giant monkey. She was so sure.

 

She crammed the dome of the skull against her nose, greedily breathing in the macabre perfume the relic emitted. A skeleton that was hundreds, maybe thousands, of years old would smell much different from one that was picked clean a mere month ago. Inhaling sharply, she didn’t sense the archaic stench one would have expected; not the dry smell of dust and earth that brought to mind the image of a mundane rock rather than mortal remains. She smelled freshness. Beneath the musty odor of soil and worms Clair could detect decomposed flesh; the metallic impression of blood within the microscopic cuts in the bones and the putrefying of meat within the black dirt. Not too long ago these bones were clothed in warm flesh, walking, alive. This person—this malformed human—died no more than six months ago. She believed that. Nyarlathotep had lied. Humans were not extinct. They were right here, lurking somewhere in this enigmatic forest, living and dying as nature intended!

 

Patting around the remains with a fat smile on her haggard face, she found another item: a piece of cloth. A small fold jutted out of the ground, but when Clair pinched it and carefully lifted it, the rest of the cloth began revealing itself, prying away dirt and unearthing the clicking bundle of ribs and vertebrae it was wrapped around. With a wet, silent rip, a piece of the fabric tore away in her fingers, reducing the firm article into a mess of moist strings the color of moss. With a low growl she clutched the greater portion in her fist and tore it out of the ground in an upheaval of earth and crying bones and wrapped it around her nose, taking in the rank like a crazed slut taking in cum. It was a shirt, or some piece of clothing, and it smelled of blood, piss, sweat, and adrenaline; the smell of humanity.

 

She rudely threw aside the cloth, stood, and took off with a determined swiftness that belied her exhausted state. Onward, she was pacing, nearly running through the forest, yet had no idea where to go. They were here, somewhere, between the trees or behind the hills. She just had to find them. How many were there? Thousands? Hundreds? A few dozen? Even a handful of people would bring her relief, just so long as she could communicate with and look into the eyes of another human. Maybe then would she at long Last have the chance to learn of her origins and find her place.

 

Her heart was violently hammering away, four beats per step. She stopped to even out her breath and her thoughts, listening to the persistent tha-dum tha-dum tha-dum reverberating through her chest. All other sounds—what little there was—yielded, and she stood alone and silent amidst the trees. There was something else here.

 

Her attention was drawn to a steep and largely treeless hill in the direction that might have once been considered South. Though tiny compared to the dunes she had to conquer back in the blue desert, the hill was just large enough to forbid Clair from seeing the horizon, or whatever was perched thereon. She had the bludgeoning feeling that whatever was calling to her was beyond that eminence. It was as if the forest had it’s own heartbeat, racing against her own.

 

_Tha-dum tha-dum tha-dum._

 

She scaled it, slowly and cautiously. As the top neared the trees thinned as if the Earth herself was balding and the the thumping intensified, making the atmosphere vibrate.

 

Then, very suddenly, she saw it. The first impression to cross her mind was that of a titanic wound in the surface of the planet, but not a clean one or one that has had the benefit of healing and scarring. Beneath her the hilltop gave way to a water buffeted gradient that was almost steep enough to be considered a cliff face. At the bottom of the nearly forty meter drop sprawled more forest, carpeting the rolling landscape below all the way towards the ragged edge of the sky. The only spot that wasn’t covered was the corroded clearing which conjured up the sickening imagery of an infected wound. The trees around the clearing were withered and leafless, a dreary ring of naked branches like the blackened skin surround the injury. The scorched ground was the color dried puss and heavily heaped with the ruins of what was undoubtedly buildings, arranged chaotically in a shoddy city that looked like a torn scab from far above.

 

As she suspected, there was indeed life in this forest—or at least, there used to be—and her guts leaped in what was either joy or trepidation. Being unnerved by this dramatic change in pace, she couldn’t be sure. But the thing that really took her by surprise and smitten her with awe was the gargantuan monolith rammed in the clearings center; the knife that inflicted this grievous wound.

 

No, it wasn’t just a monolith. It wasn’t even stone. It looked much like a black shard of glass—slender, crooked, and fiercely sharp—shattered out of a painted window the size of an ocean. It’s smooth black faces glinted in the starlight, the glare shining down on the city like rays from a fucked up mimic of Heaven. It’s claw like point towered over the world in a way that made Clair feel like an ant standing in the shadow of a god. Or rather, the shadow of a piece of trash left behind by a god. A mound of dirt was tightly puckered around the shard’s lower half, as if the ground itself was forever sucking in the threatening monument. In this mound she could see dozens of small, window-like openings, some even glowing with unsteady lights. There were gates too, and a score of stout towers erupting from the gravely sides at wild angles. Tightly coiled around the mound was a glaringly white henge, consisting entirely of corkscrew pillars and winking flambeaux, making it clear that this alien tower—whatever the hell it used to be—was now somebody’s home. Maybe even the home of an entire society if the surrounding wreckage was anything to go by.

 

 _Tha-dum tha-dum tha-dum_ , the poundingcontinued on, without a doubt originating from this lone wound, assuring Clair that it was a sign of some faceless inhabitants. She awkwardly squealed under her breath—probably meant to be a cry of jubilation, she told herself—as she pictured the things that crawled or walked in the tunnels beneath the black monolith. They could have been anything, human, animal, or something other, so there was no proof to dismiss or cling to any hunch at this point. But that didn’t matter to her. If they were human, she would be among family. If not, then they would make excellent fodder onto which she could discharge her frustration. Maybe when she’s done killing them she’ll discover that they’re quite tasty too.

 

… … …

 

Not without difficulty, Clair clambered down the mountain. It was a long and irksome journey that took her nearly an hour, just to get from the top of the cliff down to the edge of the clearing. She took slow baby-steps across the jagged slope, careful not to put her feet or hands in the wrong place and end up sending her bulk tumbling. Of course, there was more than one occasion where she failed very miserably at that. She would fall a whomping ten feet, get the shit bruised out of her, and get right back up just so it could happen all over again fifteen minutes later. After that, when she finally set foot on level ground, was a short hike through a stretch of forest, the density of which was enough to blot out what little starlight there was to speak of, leaving perfect darkness disrupted only by a barely detectable glow along the canopy. It was a pain trying not to trip over a root and smack her face into a tree trunk, but throughout she managed to maintain her heading by simply walking in one direction. Soon, the foliage thinned, not because the trees grew more distant but because they grew more withered. The last few dozen meters of trail were thickly rimmed by the same rotting trees she spied from above. Naked, crooked, and on the verge of collapsing into a field of splinters, the branches ensnared and leaned into one another in thick tangles, as if these undead plants were plague victims killing one another in fever driven madness. Befitting the necro-forest, the freshly star-lit air was suddenly traced with the slightest but most sickening odor, something that might have wafted from an opened grave. Starlight spilled in through the net of clawing branches and gave patchy light to the agonizingly thin trunks. The thumping swelled in volume, and Clair noticed that the sound was less like a heartbeat and more like the relentless pounding of a drum, not quite musical in it’s cadence but deliberate enough to reek of humanity.

 

She shoved aside a withered bush—ensnared in the coils of incandescent vines that were clearly alien to the earthly forest—and was instantly met with what passed as the city’s gate: a stout tunnel of arches composed of senselessly melded steel girders and a canopy of rusted barbed wire. Constituting the decorations were bones galore, all tied to the structure in a pattern that only made sense to the insane. Some were even driven into the ground, presumably to form some kind of useless paling.

 

Beyond the gate Clair could see that the city was far more unsightly than it looked from a distance, with time beaten huts made from wooden beams and sheetmetal, scattered along with several rotting scaffolds from which hung things that looked like simple black lumps from her vantage point. There were also other, less identifiable things, carelessly piled atop one another á la junkyard. They might have been machines once, but time and disuse has reduced them to mounds of sagging, rusting steel and dingy plastic. The lingering smell of Nodens-knows-what was strong and so nauseating that Clair considered leaving and forgetting this potentially momentous contact, or at least stuffing her nose with shreds of her undershirt. The only thing that could have been considered pretty was the tower and the way the starlight shifted around the imposing mass.

 

The muscles in the back of her neck loudly popped as her head tilted all the way back, eyes staring damn near straight up, where the deadly sharp tip of the monolith scrapped at the sky. The stars—which currently entailed four patchy orange suns, a star so dim it was almost black, a trio of green stars in a triangle configuration, and a fat pink sun that looked like an infant rose blooming out of the tree line—all circled around the sky the way they usually do. Strangely, though, from Clair’s perspective it looked as if they were orbiting around the black spire, as if the stars were also in awe. As the blisters of color slithered across the stellar dome so too did the light they bombarded the Earth with. The reflected glare swam across the tower’s glass facets and rained down rays of starlight upon the city. With all the bright colors and blazing sparkles passing over those decrepit houses, finely cracked windows, and slime soaked wrecks in an unceasing clockwise circle, Clair felt she should have fancied the scene to be akin to a giant mirrorball; a festive and spectacular trinket to be adhered to what could be the only human village in existence. But instead, the light rays seemed more like the ever vigilant searchlights of a cruel, autocratic tyrant, keeping the bugs forever beneath it’s influence.

 

_Tha-dum tha-dum tha-dum. Tha-dum tha-dum tha-dum._

 

The thrumming continued. The maddening, repetitive rhythm dovetailed with the gradually turning lights to create a hypnotic display not unlike something out of a powerful hallucination. It was marred only by the overwhelming stench, which Clair was still unable to identify.

 

Walking a little further, Clair got a closer look at one the mounds of metal. Beneath the crumbling, vaguely ellipsoid shell—which, in it’s ruined state, was more like to shredded blanket—she could see several more metallic things. Numerous objects similar to fans, belts, cords, boxes, grates, shafts, and gears were seemingly pasted together with black sludge and crisscrossing webs of rust-sickles. On either side of the overall mass were three hemispherical notches, from which some dangled tangles of ambiguous parts. In others were set the decayed remains of rubber-clad wheels. The front of the thing was punctured with yawning apertures framed with vicious glass shards—what used to be windows, she guessed—in addition to half a dozen battered devices that could have been lamps in some other life. The wreck excreted a stout smell that, despite it’s strength, was barely detectable beneath the more dominant, more putrid rank that filled the clearing. She reckoned the wreck might have been an automobile at one point, but clearly it is now much less than that, and that left her somewhat regretful over the loss of something that could have done her journey so much good.

 

 _Tha-dum tha-dum tha-dum. Tha-dum tha-dum tha-dum_.

 

She followed a rough trail composed of wet sand and rocks that were too dark to be gravel. It seemed to lead nowhere in particular, but simply snaked around one wing of the town before abruptly ending a considerable distance away from a miserable looking cluster of houses. Surprisingly, they looked fairly normal, albeit in a very poor condition that could only be loosely considered habitable. The walls were perforated like violently slashed cardboard, and the roofs sagged as if they were nothing but paper pyramids soaked with water. Aside from houses there were also randomly placed holes or wells in the ground, frames with mounds of black dirt. The wisps of smoke spiraling out of these not only told her they were fire pits, but also told her the houses were inhabited, if not recently vacated. Instinctively, she upholstered Astylvere. She kept the gun in a unthreatening position—hanging somewhat lankly at her side—but kept her finger close enough to the trigger for comfort.

 

“Hello?” She called. She figured it all too likely that whoever lived here didn’t speak English, but for the moment all she needed to do was say something in the unmistakable tongue of humanity for the sake of inciting a reaction, any reaction. They could come outside with lips stretched in a smile and arms open, or they could come out snarling curses and waving swords. Either way, if they’re human then they will react. She only needed one response.

 

Clair waited a while longer, examining the nearby edifices and the curious scaffolding that surrounded most of them. On one severely beaten set of scaffolds hung another black mass, much like the one she spotted before. Up close it was apparent it hung by a rope and swayed ever so slightly with the breeze.

 

“I’ve not going to hurt you! Please come out!” She vacantly called out again, peering into the windows of the nearest houses. Most were, predictably, tinted over with grime, forbidding a clear view of the interior. What few windows were devoid of glass allowed Clair to look in on nothing but darkness and a few vague shapes. She thought she spied a couple of glowing orbs like the glow of a night prowlers eyes, but she dismisses this as a trick of her imagination.

 

Tightening her grip on the laser rifle, her chest echoing the omnipresent _tha-dum tha-dum_ , she turned again to the thing hanging from the scaffolds. Edging closer, she noticed stubby appendages like arms or legs. She thought it must have been a skinned chicken.

 

Why the hell would these people keep a perfectly good chicken hanging outside? Then again, why would they leave automobiles to rust to shit? Why surround their houses with useless structures? Why settle down in an oasis of death beneath a giant shard of glass? She had little doubt this town was the craft of humans, but clearly they were a strange bunch.

 

_Tha-dum tha-dum tha-dum._

 

Her stomach made another guttural noise, now at the point of virtually tearing itself apart. Her mouth watered as she wondered if there was still enough of that chicken to salvage. Taking a side long glance at one of the fire pits—noting the dim and dying embers sprinkled into the smoldering ashes—she considered skewering the bird and roasting it if she could get a good blaze going. Gazing back at the chicken, she noticed a swarm of insects (“flies” she thought, but she knew better than to misidentify the nameless alien bugs they really were) orbiting the hanging body, buzzing and pecking the blistered skin. Fat, copper colored worms—uncannily similar to maggots—thrashed sluggishly in the festering wounds along the ribs, every few seconds making suicidal leaps to the urine colored dirt below. The meat was rotting, obviously, but to her shame Clair wasn’t at all deterred. She ventured a few more steps until her face was just a foot away from the carcass. As the “flies” thumped into her dried, sunken cheeks while they continued their blind circling, the smell finally assaulted her. She could never recall ever learning the sensation, but she knew the stench of moldy meat. This was not at all that familiar odor.

 

_Tha-dum tha-dum tha-dum. Tha-dum tha-dum tha-dum. Tha-dum tha-dum tha-dum. Tha-dum tha-dum tha-dum._

 

She realized she was looking at the carcass’ back upon seeing the brown ridges of it’s exposed spine and a pair of tiny buttocks. Her heart sank, realizing that chickens don’t have asses like that. The next second she learned the rope was tied around the neck, from which the large, round head solemnly drooped. What she thought were wings had misshapen fingers, and what she mistook for talons were the skeletal remains of stubby toes.

 

Jaw shaking, eyes narrowed, head cocked, she gently tapped the body with Astylvere’s nuzzle, daring not to touch the thing with her bare fingers. The light push sent it into a slow and shaky spin. The rest of the world fell into a well of silence as the rope quietly creaked and the face came phasing into view. When, seconds later, she found herself staring squarely into a pair of rotting, dripping eyes her calm promptly shattered. She gasped, features crooked in a horrified grimace, and she took several hasty steps back as she beheld what was once the countenance of a newborn. The black and purple skin hung in oily tatters around a silently screaming mouth festering with parasites and thick puss. Through the forehead was driven a wooden spike, nearly identical in contours to the black spire. She couldn’t understand why someone would string up a child and leave it to rot outside, but regardless of the reason Clair felt her blood boil in a abysmal rage. She decided that if she wasn’t going to get an answer, she was going to take whatever lives she needed.

 

“Animals!” She screamed, her shrill curse briefly eclipsing the constant thumping. “Come out now!” she commanded her hosts, but she didn’t wait for a response. She cocked her rifle—the slender, metallic body hummed with anticipation—and she violently kicked down the door of the nearest house. To little surprise, the gate easily exploded into a barrage splinters as it gave way to her boot. She pushed aside the smashed remnants of the hinges as she stormed in and absorbed the sight of a small and disordered room. In her rushed search for life, she barely registered a number of slipshod housewares—a couple of chairs, a small table, a mysterious mechanical device, a lopsided cabinet that looked just big enough to be a wardrobe, and a tattered carpet now covered in door pieces—all strewn across the dark chamber, just out of range of the dim starlight the doorway admitted. She gave up and decided to search the next house, rounding around to leave the filthy home.

 

She didn’t have time to scream upon seeing a figure standing between her and the exit. Before she could even pull the trigger, a blunt object crashed into the side of her head, sending her into darkness.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I might try to start a kind of loose soundtrack. I dunno. I just found this damn good song by The Great Old Ones (no, not them) called “The Omniscient”. Love the vibe of this song and thought to share it. 
> 
> https://youtu.be/ciLXMnSjJwo


	9. Euphoria

_New worlds crown. Born is my animal._

_Instincts catch me when I fall,_

_Hatred becomes my lonely call._

_I am feral. In hell, I am the animal._

_—Unknown_

 

 

 

 

 

 

Aside from the cloths off her back, Astylvere was the only possession Clair had. It was there since the beginning, conjured out of oblivion just as her own body had been, and was without argument the only reason she lived to see the rest of her journey. It was a weapon unlike anything she could remember—and certainly beyond anything she could imagine—but it was also an unsolvable enigma all on it’s own. Just looking at the rifle gave one the sense that they were in the presence of a power beyond mankind’s ability to grasp. But yet, here is Clair, grasping it and nonchalantly using it to carve her own path. Even considering it’s heavily battered appearance, which betrayed it’s age, Astylvere still felt and worked like a weapon passed down from the gods themselves. It was as if the frame was forged by the blacksmiths of Heaven, infused with the venomous power of the warriors of Hell, and foolishly plopped into the hands of a common woman, victim to her own ignorant whims.

 

Indeed, Clair knew she was only a mortal wielding divine power, but that caused no sense of shame within her. She was just a woman, aging and near delirious, but with a mysterious talisman like Astylvere in her arsenal, she was an aging and near delirious woman that could kill anyone and anything in her way, towards the end of seizing control of her life. There was no remorse in doing so. Astylvere was in her hands for a reason, so she felt. What that reason was, exactly, always alluded her and with this she resigned to her ignorance. The rifle itself would never forfeit it’s secrets so easily, but mattered little in light of the fact that because of that rifle she was permitted to remain alive long enough to seek the truths that really mattered to her.

 

Regardless of wether or not the “Secrets of the Astylvere”—as she dramatically called them—were relevant they made for an excellent topic to muse over while she was bored, and an even more exciting development whenever she would happen to inadvertently disclose one such secret.

 

Still, the origins of Astylvere were unknown to Clair and she had a sick feeling that it will most likely remain that way for a very long time. But to hold her over, she did discover three (and, so far, only three) lethal abilities the fearsome rifle had at it’s disposal.

 

The first was more miraculous than deadly, but in any case it was a useful aspect that no other firearm could ever be blessed with. The first secret was, simply, that Astylvere never seemed to run out of ammunition. This was no exaggeration. Anyone can easily say the same thing in jest if a gun can operate for an outstanding duration of time with a single pack of bullets, but Astylvere literally never runs out bullets, and in fact lacks any kind of aperture or mechanism to even store or fire bullets. Unsurprising, since Astylvere is, of course, a laser rifle, but even so, one must wonder how a gun like that can even find the energy to fire off infinite rounds if it’s not outright pulling it out of thin air. She came across this surprise very early in her journey, maybe three or four weeks after her homecoming. At first, Clair’s vaguely remembered gun savvy dictated that she should use her rifle conservatively, since—she would have guessed—any gun would have limited bullets at it’s disposal. This sense of caution didn’t last long, however, when it became apparent that Astylvere was required for just about everything, from defending herself to hunting to blasting away dense patches of glass-plants. She very quickly forgot about conserving her ammo and just fired away whenever whenever the desire struck her, remaining oblivious to the fact that Astylvere had long since refused to do the one thing any normal gun would do. It wasn’t until she was caught in the throes of a temper tantrum one night and decided to butcher a gargantuan centipede-like thing that had been following her for the past four days, all the while making some kind of awful “WHAwhaRtttthlsHOOOO! RahhhlllHOOOO!” noise. With her very conspicuous travel mate refusing to shut up, it was only a matter of time before she snapped and decided to write it’s demise. Though Clair killed it, she didn’t stop there. Motivated by a weird and very violent dream she experienced on the night before, she thought it would be fun to blast the goddam thing with a few dozen shots to it’s spongy face until it was nothing but a pile of fried mucus. And that was exactly what she did. Even after the creature was well past expiration Clair continued to shoot, watching in glee as beam after beam of brightly blazing fire pierced the dead, burning skin and exploded. It was only after her playtime ended (there was not much left to shoot at, unless she could count a thin layer of char on the ground) that she realized that she just fired her weapon almost two hundred times and was still at liberty to fire it two hundred more. Mulling over that at length, she eventually arrived at the inevitable conclusion that her beloved Astylvere was a bottomless pit of unrestrained firepower. As confusing as that was, it made her happy, at least for a little bit.

 

The second secret of Astylvere was the more terrifying of the three, not so much for the already apparent abilities but for the yet unseen potential of said abilities: Astylvere apparently possessed a mind of it’s own, or at the very least can react to any given situation with a swiftness that rivaled it’s bearer at her best. That is to say, whenever Astylvere is directed at any enemy—be it To-Chue, B’hole, Batzoid, Atemii, Aether Gaunt, space butterfly, or any other mobile entity—it automatically adjusts it’s destructive output to better deal with it. Once, Clair was forced to shoot a sickly looking imp and the beam that Astylvere ejected was thin and relatively cool, and the sound it made was not the musically vicious shriek the gun normally emits. Not to mention, the imp didn’t explode either. It simply fell dead, a thoroughly cauterized wound through the skull but otherwise still in one piece. All in all, a very mild and unspectacular slaughter for such a tiny creature. On the other hand, though, when she was confronted by a massively obese chimera the size of a house just ten days ago, she succeeded in making short work of it with an incredible shot to the head. Though she was positive that Astylvere didn’t posses the power to eradicate such a formidable opponent, she was left utterly astonished when the projectile the rifle fired—while expected to be the fiery but nonetheless modest blast she’d come to expect—was less of a laser beam and more of a churning storm of cosmic fire and blinding colors, accompanied by a tsunami of heat that was more than enough burn the bare skin of her fingers and permanently redden her nails. While earlier Astylvere humanely executed an ill imp quickly and cleanly, it now subjected a behemoth to a kind of suffering akin to a dunk in the lake of fire for the last half second of it’s life. From the waist up, every part of the chimera was simply vaporized. Not only could her gun do that, but could also fire entirely on it’s own volition, as if occasionally substituting Clair’s will with it’s own. There’s been more than one instance where Astylvere shot and killed something and she never had to lay a finger on the trigger. Each and every time, it seemed, these occurrences happened at the most optimal chances, such as the rare few moments when she was so fear-frozen that she was completely incapable of lethally reacting to assailants. These curious moments she was eternally grateful for—given that the supposedly non-sentient gun had saved her life—but that didn’t mean she wasn’t mortally fearful of Astylvere. If it was capable of making it’s own decisions—and therefore aware, in some way—then what would ever stop it from killing it’s mistress? It’s thoughts like this that convinced Clair further that she was losing her mind, yet it was still a question that kept her awake at times.

 

As far the third secret goes, that was relatively new for her. For as simple as it was, she had yet to find very many uses for it. Nothing that Astylvere in it’s normal configuration could do. However, that was until her unfortunate encounter with the people beneath the black shard…

 

… … …

 

_Tha-dum tha-dum tha-dum tha-dum._

_Tha-dum tha-dum tha-dum tha-dum._

_Tha-dum tha-dum tha-dum tha-dum._

 

For all she could understand, Clair might have been living another nightmare. Might as well. That might have been better. As she was being pulled along against her will—unable to tell if the pattering of unshod feet was her own or if they belonged to whoever owned the thick voice that constantly bubbled in her ears—she recalled a strike and then blackness. Perhaps it was the blackness of nothing, or the confusing overture to this odd sensation she was sinking further into, censored by her subconscious. Her surroundings were nothing but murk, ruthlessly smudged into one another to the point where it was impossible to tell where one color began and the other ended. Shapes moved about, passing through her impaired vision like black smoke through fog. She attempted to make sense of the shapes she surmised to be her captors, but her mind refused to shake off the last vestiges of unconsciousness. She tried moving, but all she could do was twitch the fingers of her left hand. The right was apparently locked in someone’s meaty fist. Her legs, while loose, were loudly grating against the icy stone floor like the tail of a brides dress, the thick leather of her pants the only thing keeping her shins from being filed away. They, like every other piece of her being, were uselessly paralyzed, at least until she could fully wake up. Unable to do more, she tried to fathom the situation, and the only thing that made sense in this clouded state was that her half-incapacitated self was being dragged towards somewhere. Gods only knew where. The taint of simmering stars was nowhere to bed seen, so she knew she must have been indoors or underground.

 

“Wheuuur…rrr…weh?” she groaned, numb tongue unable to weave proper words. Her eyelids flutter stiffly, snapping shut every time the predatory glare of subterranean lights would stab her retinas. 

 

“Gh’ruhll thot’ya-nul’s vfkkf’yllu?” one of her captors huffed, squeezing her arm in admonishment. Clair felt her skin bruise. A fleeting desire to bite the creature’s fingers off stirred in her chest and the most venomous curse she could think of bulged in her throat.

 

_Tha-dum tha-dum tha-dum tha-dum._

_Tha-dum tha-dum tha-dum tha-dum._

_Tha-dum tha-dum tha-dum tha-dum_.

 

She became aware once again of that infernal thrumming, but now that it infected the air and violently clutched at her form she knew it was more of a drumming, echoing loudly through the chambers. Like alcohol being held beneath her nose the familiar sound partially reinvigorated her. The scene of amorphous shapes and colors unfused and transformed into a cavern tunnel, lit at wide intervals by flambeaux. To her frustration, the identity of her captors was still indistinguishable in the scarce lighting but their silhouettes and their waddling gaits made it evident they were human, or at least humanoid. She stared daggers at them and with what little strength she had in her tried to wrestle her arms free, but the one at her left—a man that easily stood a couple heads taller than Clair and was garbed only in what was apparently a loincloth—responded with a guttural scoff and proceed to slam his rock-solid fist into Clair’s jaw, and then again in her gut. With both the wind and her senses knocked out of her, she involuntarily abandoned her struggle and watched in dull fury as the world began to spin again. If it wasn’t bad enough that her already aching stomach now felt like had been held hostage in an overly tightened brace, then the hot ichor of spilled blood on her tongue and the empty sensation in the back of her gums made her wish someone would just put a bullet between her eyes. If not in hers, then between theirs. She rolled her two broken molars around in her mouth before letting the busted teeth flow lazily past her gums in a glob of bloody saliva and fall to the constantly receding floor. She was unreasonably pissed about having to lose those teeth.

 

The other captor—who was also a male, but with noticeably dwarfish proportions and not a scrap of clothing to speak of—spat a nasty sounding string of words at his partner before punctuating with a jovial “Iä. Iä.”, a phrase Clair found oddly familiar. Despite his small size, he had the tightest grip of the two, absolutely forbidding her right arm from escaping his clutches. Every time the midget’s shadowed shape would pass across one of the wall torches, Clair caught a brief glimpse of his dirt-colored arms wrapped around her bicep. They were absurdly huge, giving the captive woman the almost hilarious impression of two tumor riddled pythons stitched to a poorly crafted scarecrow. And thinking about how flammable scarecrows are, she started daydreaming about the pleasure she would gain when she finally satisfies Astylvere’s bloodlust on these two wretches, but immediately noticed that she could no longer feel the rifle’s weight dangling at her hip. She twitched her leg, expecting to feel the recoiling Astylvere slap against her thigh, but there was nothing but the sting of curdled blood sluggishly flowing through her veins.

 

“Meh…gun? Whur…?” She slurred as another strand of drool ran across her chin.

 

“Yullt’choolfgh! Iä!” the midget snapped.

 

“Fuck…you…” Clair shot back. Although she intended the curse to sound like a snarl it came out more as a drunken groan.

 

The taller one whistled for Clair’s attention, turning slightly to meet her feral gaze. Clair could only see the man’s profile, but to her that was more than enlightening enough. The one eye she could see slid stiffly in it’s socket until the amber pupil was aimed at the woman like an unmoving meteor. She thought eyes couldn’t move so far aside as that one did, almost as if the eye had bulged out in a glassy cyst and wrapped itself around the side of the man’s face with just enough subtlety to make her believe it was just an illusion. The skin on the man’s cheeks and around his nose was taunt and leathery. Ugly, but no more unusual than any other skin condition, yet there was an oily, iridescent sheen to his countenance, as if he was part amphibian. Though the most disturbing feature was the snout, and indeed it was a snout, like something off an animal. Both hawkish nose and permanently peeled lips protruded forward far more than any human face ever could. The teeth, sharply curved and prominent, were locked together in a grin filled with knives and dripping in saliva. While the dog-like head was still staring and smiling, the creature croaked “Gun?” and reached for a large object that hung off the belt of his loincloth. He held it up to the torchlight so Clair could see it and she was startled to learn that the beast was in possession of Astylvere.

 

Clair made a hissing noise between her blood stained teeth, rasping “Give…me…”. She could squeeze her worlds out with no more ease than she could move her body, but regardless they understood her. The midget shook his head so hystericallythat it not only caused the towering knot of hair atop his scalp to wiggle like an infuriated worm, but also blurred his features.

 

“No no no no no no no no no.” The tiny man sputtered like firecrackers going off in a marsh, following up his crazed defiance with an equally rapid nod and a sharp “You belong to…”, which he finished with a hideous word that sounded vaguely like “Khu’th’lhoo’loo”. When the midget calmed, he turned towards Clair, and here she was able to look the little guy in the blocky, glass-and-metal apparatuses that served as his eyes. Yet that wasn’t the worst of his deformities. The man’s face almost entirely lacked skin and muscle, exposing the brown and sun-beaten skull that would ordinarily lie beneath. The frayed edges of his skin were cauterized into blackened scabs and the askew jaw hung by just a few dried sinews in a fixed smile. In addition, the midget’s wildly disproportionate body was scored with numerous deep cuts, lacing together in strangely intriguing patterns. The apparently fresh and glisteningly pink wounds seemed to weep a milky fluid that was was clearly not human blood. She felt pure acid burn in her throat as she tried to understand how this faceless being could even speak let alone live with such grievous injuries. But her conviction was resolved. She now knew she was wrong to asume these beings were people. The duo that dragged her along looked too much like humans—or as approximate as any being on this planet can be—but she knew no man can bear suck wicked and brutalized bodies.

 

She tried one last time to escape, but could go no further than a firm jerk of her body. The two held onto her with ease, even going so far as to laugh at her futility. The tall one growled a heinous work (“Fuh-tag-uhn” is what Clair thought she heard) and swung the woman’s own rifle around to strike her fiercely between the eyes. The painful collision between the unyielding steel and her skull, followed by the burn of broken flesh and flowing blood, was the last thing she experienced before being dunked back into oblivion.

 

The next thing she knew was the stench, that same familiar odor that pestered her earlier but intensified a hundredfold to the point of being palpable. It was no longer just an ambiguous miasma lingering in the background, but a malodorous juggernaut clawing at her overall perception; a rank that was an amalgam of exumed graves and rotting flesh, of freshly spewed semen and the excretions of the dead, of unwashed bodies and the musk of sweat, of rancid seawater and some other smells she couldn’t identify. Next was the bludgeoning cacophony of an out of control party, but of the kind only Hell spawn would be inclined to enjoy. There was jovial laughing and cheering—many exclamations of “Ahhooooo!” and “Yeeeeeeehhhh!”—but underlying that was the relentless sobbing and screaming of the damned, pleading for salvation as the mad danced around their mutilated carcasses.

 

And then there was that drumming, that never ending _tha-dum tha-dum tha-dum_ which was always there and always echoing, bringing the backdrop to life with a delirious heartbeat. It had become such a widespread part of this nightmare that she had simply forgotten it’s existence in the complex shadows of all the finer details.

 

She opened her eyes as quickly as she would when emerging from a nightmare, but was confronted with yet another haze. What she saw then was much like what one would see when peering at a swarm of ravaging piranhas beneath the shallows, murky waters of a swamp: rapidly rolling globs of nigh identical color moving every which way to no clear rhythm. She knew this was no illusion, but the same entities that hooted and screamed in ecstasy. It wasn’t until her vision solidified that she wished she had remained blind.

 

 _People_. Hundreds of humans. However much she desperately desired to avoid using those titles, their origin was inescapable.

 

The room she was absorbed into was a vast one, a shapeless cavern chamber permeated with an expectedly frigid atmosphere and oppressive echo, but given the climate of a cathedral by the shadow-sliced lighting that flickered across the bulging, blistered walls and the lofty ceiling that vaulted high above the assembly with a collection of stalactites that bore their smooth points like the teeth of a malevolently smirking god. It was these hanging spires she wanted to continue to look at; anything to take her eyes off of _them_. But she was about to be on the defensive, she knew. The deformities of this cathedral’s reveling goers was off-putting enough for her, for anyone could dubiously be considered human when their heads bare the outlines of toads, their crooked fingers resemble the legs of spiders, their skin is like overused sandpaper, and their eyes are as dark and shrunken as decaying figs. And yet, like her escorts, they were in anthropoid in figure, as if they were well forgotten cousins of mankind rather than brothers. No two were alike. Each man, woman, and child (how hard it was to tell the difference between the three!) had a unique look to their unanimously naked bodies, ranging from being almost human to being purple-skinned things with three arms and severely bent torsos. Here, a man hopped wildly on stilt-like legs while shaking shriveled arms at the sides of his sagging pecs, and over there a woman bowed up and down in ecstatic worship, somehow howling muffled praises through lips that were fused together and weeping a literal waterfall of tears that would have been cartoonish had it not been so upsetting. In the back two children screamed like cicadas, one slamming her head into a bulge in the wall and the other writhing on the floor and foaming at the mouth, and all the while a nearby elderly man—so lacking a neck that his hairless, squishy head seemed crammed in between his shoulders—was occupied with ripping his own fingers off their knuckles with his jagged teeth. Glaring in astonishment from one gnarled shape to another, it was clear that dancing was far from the only thing that constituted a good time for these creatures. Some wielded spiked clubs and tarnished scythes longer than a man’s height, massacring fellow revelers in festive firework shows of blood, as if they were nothing but beetles. Those without weapons simply gathered into mosh pits and singled out the single most frailest of their throng, thereafter eviscerating, decapitating, dismembering, flaying, lacerating, gouging, deboning, and ultimately cannibalizing the hapless shrimp with their bare hands. Those not killing were fucking; fucking the old and young, fucking man and woman, fucking the barely human and blatantly inhuman. Most raped while clawing at their screaming mates like pissed off cats. The few pairings that seemed consensual violently pounded each other in the asses or pussies upon the the blood and vomit drenched floor. To Clair’s horrified, frantically rushing mind there was no distinction between orgy, worship, and slaughter. There was only madness. A nameless madness unlike anything she ever thought possible. Feeling so petrified with horror, Clair easily forgot that her limp body was still being dragged unceremoniously through this nightmare, no less through an all consuming puddle of viscera and bodily fluids. All thoughts drained away, and panic began to bubble in her head.

 

At the forefront of the chamber was the alter, which in itself was nothing special compared to the audience skirting it, with it being merely a massive slab of soapstone that served as a kind of stage, iced over with a dense layer of bones and organs, mashed into a pulpy crimson paste by the frantically moving feet of the individual who howled and shouted at his apparent subjects. His flesh was seemingly blistered and tattered with large holes from which heaved chunks of his bleached muscles. The deformities extended to his face to a dramatic degree. Rifts shredded into his cheeks and the dips around his eyes made it look as if he were beaming at the assembly with a maniacal grin and bugging eyes. Like everyone else, he was stark naked, with the only things to cover his rage-pinked hide being a colorfully painted bird skull mantling his balding head and numerous neon green tassels tightly coiled around his arms and erected prick. His scant but noticeable attire combined with his prominence gave Clair the feeling that he was their leader, perhaps even a priest. Unlike everyone else, his deranged hissing manifested itself into true language. Words that Clair could easily understand filled the spaces between the animalistic noises that frothed out of the priest’s cavernous lips. Most notably: “Sleeps! He sleeps! He sleeeeeeeepsssss! Do this for him brothers and sisters! Lay your blood upon the hollowed ground of the Oblivion Shard and feed him! Feed him and sleep! Sleep with the almighty! Sleep with the gnawing end! Sleep with dead CTHULHU! DEAD BUT DREAMING!” On either side of the stage crouched two women, mercilessly pounding upon broad drums to the rhythm of the priest’s movements, sometimes with their hands but other times with their bruised foreheads. Despite the drummer’s erratic playing the sound still bore an uncanny to a heartbeat. Now, Clair believed she understood why that must have been, why the throng insisted on filling their home with the hammering noises to life. Out of the chaos it was the only thing that made sense. It was to symbolically bring to life to the titan that loomed in unsteady shadows behind the altar. It was the object of their barbaric worship, the cherry upon this sundae of depravity and horror, an effigy and the great black wall that framed it, a surreal specter that presided over the congregation and their mad preacher with a kind of condescending weight that smothered the evil going-ons below as if it were noting but a wrestling match between aphids. The towering representation—whatever the unholy fuck it was supposed to be—seemed alive, and it wasn’t just because of the flickering glare of torches that pranced across the black, glassy wall, giving the illusion of the effigy swaying hypnotically. The real reason was that the unmoving statue was composed of flesh. Whole human-ish bodies, torn to greasy shreds and stacked—no, wadded and compacted—together into the elusive form of a humanoid statue. And it dripped. It’s great soggy mass leaned over the altar with it’s arms outstretched to it’s sides, and the myriad of lungs and brains and sheets of blackened skin slowly rained moldy blood upon the priest as he danced around and masturbated upon the dead bodies that decorated his stage. The drops pattered musically upon the crimson puddle. In a strange twist that made Clair even more sick without any discernible reason, the carnal behemoth was supported by a massive cross, with it’s hands nailed to the horizontal and bar and it’s fat body slumping away from the vertical. With it’s seemingly pointless crucifixion it was as if the thing was somehow mocking all benevolence. Daring to scrutinize the effigy even deeper (an action she came deathly close to regretting) Clair began to see more than just a human shape to the organic heap. It was uniquely coherent yet oddly disjointed, and seemed to fuse together the worst of a dragon, an octopus, and, of course, a man. Tentacles of entrails thickly skirted a dented head composed of puréed brains and hearts, which sat crooked upon a near spherical body made out of the decomposing and brutally dismembered bodies of children. The arms were of braided spines and skinned legs, the clawed fingers were whole rib cages, and the eyes were bloodied skulls, the sockets of which were packed with half a dozen eyeballs each.

 

Finally, the priest seemed to notice his three visitors and promptly shouted several unintelligible commands, not only to Clair’s escorts but to the congregation as well. A majority—those that were still alive—of the mutated people responded with a wolf-like howl and immediately began rushing towards Clair. She will never forget the hungry look in their eyes, the way their bear trap mouths clenched in perverted desire, and the way all their malformed hands reached for her, nails seeking to see every bit of her flesh defiled solely for their pleasure. Not even wolves would ever give that kind of look to a rabbit it was preparing to devour. That was the look only fiends could wear, and it despaired her to so much as believe that men were such fiends.

 

Dozens of them flowed towards the captors and their loot, giving thefrightening impression that the chamber had suddenly melted into a tidal wave of mangled flesh and was rapidly closing in around her, tickling her already incarcerated feeling. They cried and laughed in anticipation as they did, as if they were both terrified and fascinated by the fully clothed, densely armored, and comparatively beautiful woman in their midst. Clair was stricken by a sense of deja vu, knowing that at some point in the recent past she dreamed of being surrounded by deformed idiots who were enthralled by her alien presence.

 

They approached, but to Clair’s surprise the captors snarled back and spat curses at the rabid crowd, intending to keep them away and in their place. The dog-faced man barked absolute gibberish that Clair assumed to be their own language in actuality while the midget screamed in clear English “Away! Away, all of you!”, fiercely striking every face that came within three feet of him. Regardless of their efforts, a few of the small and dwarfish creatures managed to slip through, including one of the children she noticed moments ago. Aside from exposed ribs and a caved forehead that profusely gushed blood the little girl looked fairly normal, but that did nothing to stop Clair from stomping her foot into her pouting face when the child tried to take a bite out of her. The fatal cracking and slushing of a shattered skull told the older woman that she had forever assured the girl never took another bite out of anything again. She didn’t feel bad about it.

 

“Clean her! Bring her to me!” The priest roared, waving his tasseled hands at the drummers, signaling them to intensify their performance. Her captors stopped mere inches away from the edge of the stage—where Clair was awarded a very humbling view of the priest and the tentacled effigy—and threw the woman onto the floor with more than enough force to disorient her, all the while still fighting off the unruly spectators. Once again, her head was swollen and bleeding as she lifted it off the ground, and an almost serene ringing shot through her ears. She didn’t even notice that the captors has removed her boots and socks until she felt the grind of pebbles and mud between her toes.

 

“No!” She screamed, realizing what was about to happen. She tried to get up and run, but she lost her balance and fell across the lip of the stage, eliciting laughter from the dog-faced man, the priest, and a few among the congregation. The priest grabbed her by the hair and pulled her up, forcing her to scream and pull away with all her strength, but the midget sent a heavy fist into her stomach and made it much easier for him and dog-face to shove her on stage. As she cried bleary eyed for help—knowing too dreadfully that no such thing will ever exist—dog-face dragged her in a headlock, crushing her windpipe with so much force that she was convinced she was about to die mid-strip. Dog-face impatiently peeled away her coat, and then her uselessly armored undershirt while the midget, just as swiftly if more gracefully, pulled her trousers and skirt away from her hips. With a shriveled tongue, the little man licked his bared and lipless teeth lecherously when the curls of her bush was exposed for all the world to see. She feared he would have ventured to penetrate her, but the priest chastised him before he could even move a muscle, afterwards approaching the crowd and began working it into a hype, chanting “IÄ! IÄ! IÄ! IÄ! IÄ!”. In a sharp change from total chaos to unblemished unity, the congregation all began echoing the chant “IÄ! IÄ! IÄ! IÄ! IÄ!” with such thunderous volume that it consumed the constant _tha-dum tha-dum tha-dum_ with ease. 

 

Second later she was standing naked and voided of all dignity before her fellow humans, desperately fighting the urge to cry and beg for mercy. Tears welled behind her clenched eyes, begging to flow, while she held one arm tightly across her beasts and the other against her loins, trying so hard to believe covering even a little bit of her pale skin would make her feel marginally safer.

 

Three more individuals scampered hastily onstage: a squat and obscenely obese youngster, whose stacks of fat rolls and total lack of hair completely obscured their true gender; a gaunt man covered in charred skin, who seemed to be the absolute antithesis of the fat kid with his branch-thin limps and seven foot height; and lastly an elderly woman, who’s crawling form was made truly disquieting not by the flaps of freely dangling skin that hung off of her body like tufts of moss, but by the conjoined twin that hung limp and lifeless from her belly. The fat one and the tall one quickly joined her captors in seizing her by the limbs, while the old woman and her sibling assumed the roles of cheerleaders by hopping about on her hands and feet and shouting incitements. Not at all certain wether she should be pleading or threatening, Clair found herself relying on simple animal behavior, hissing vindictively and dragging her untrimmed nails across her detainers elastic skin, succinctly dreaming of ripping it off their bones. Though she violently gyrated her body, Clair feared she was only successful in arousing them further. The four wrestled her into submission with an incredible strength she never would have expected from men that looked like the slaughtered experiments from a fickle god.

 

With dog-face and the midget reclaimed her arms and the fat kid and the thin man at her legs, they spreadeagled her prone body tightly over a small bed of stone she had failed to notice until now. The sharp edges of the rock racked the small of of back, forcing her ribs and breast up in an arch. She felt every bone and sinew in her body stretch into torturously taught cords as her embarrassingly unshaven armpits and clitoris reared ready for desecration at the obtuse corners of her body. While in the throes of blind hysteria, the old woman leaped between her legs and shoved her tongue into her cunt, ravaging her tender insides for a miserable two seconds, earning a choked sob from between Clair’s clenched teeth. The experience ended instantly when the fat kid grabbed the woman by her vestigial twin (the despair in the woman’s scream nearly made Clair cum, much to her shame) and used the dead baby for leverage as they swung the decrepitated bitch into the black wall. The moment the woman’s head made contact with it’s own tinted reflection it burst like a rotten melon into a splotch of unnatural orange blood, allowing the twitching body to slide to the floor, cold and wet in it’s own vile juices.

 

The priest returned to kindling more mania from the crowd. At his behest, the chant morphed and became a steady repetition of “IÄ! IÄ! CTHULHU FHTAGN! IÄ! IÄ! CTHULHU FHTAGN!”. The balanced, disciplined reciting of this hymn was haunting. In nearly an instant the congregation went from disorder to an ominously enchanting choir of naked freaks. Clair would have even gone so far as to compare them to a company of troops marching flawlessly to their own tune. They pumped their fist in the air to the rhythm of the drums as the sexually charged bass reached the end of it’s orgasm, nearing the climatic moment that will see Clair sacrificed.

 

Once the the crowd was under his trance, the priest brandished an irregularly shaped blade glowering with the same lustrous black sheen as the wall. He straddled Clair and spread his arms wide as he shouted more praises to the unshapely mass of bodies—their heinous overlord, “Cthulhu”—which continued to lean over the stage with it’s anus-like, finger-bone laden mouth yawning wide. Juices continued to drip from the tentacles, falling across everyone’s nudity. Drops of crimson and shit-green liquid washed the priest’s euphorically blazing face as he howled in a voice too shrill to belong to a human “Consume this infidel’s soul, my Lord! Let her blood adorn your hallowed brow! Let her perishing influence in your universe be the rust that easts away at the locks upon your prison! Iä! T’uuli-gh’dfghur! Nafl’fhtagn! Be free and cleanse the Earth of the Shepherd God’s disease!” After this his preaching deteriorated into drivel, driving away Clair’s attention.

 

Just as true panic was beginning to drive through her head like a hot iron, undaunted cognition dispelled the feeling when she spied Astylvere hanging from dog-face’s sash, it’s long, curvaceous frame glinting like a prosthetic gilded in living steel. Though her arm was bound her fingers were still free to move without making her hosts all the more wise. Because of the way dog-face held her, Clair’s hand was just a hair width’s away from grazing the gun’s crimson flank, but the handle, pointing away from her, was not so easily reachable. However, situated on a rather odd but exclusively convenient panel between the stock and the scope was a small knob hued in scuffed copper. She stretched her middle finger, feeling her knuckles pop under the stress of reaching for that knob. Her grasp almost slipped, but she breathed in relief when her nail caught the lip by just the finest margin, lifting the knob ever so slightly. The unnoticeable dial clicked just once—silent enough that the audial repercussion was lost in the combined storm of chanting and drumming—and Clair smiled, believing she will at last have her enemies at her mercy. She will make them suffer.

 

The priest croaked a final prayer to Cthulhu and raised his dagger. He brought the lethal tool down like lightning upon the space between the twin mounds of her breasts.

 

… … …

 

As far the third secret of Astylvere, that was relatively new for her. For as simple as it was, she had yet to find very many uses for it. Nothing that the mechanical though half-sentient rifle in it’s normal configuration could do. However, that was until her unfortunate encounter with the people beneath the black shard. Where the powers of a firearm were all but unavailing—or at least, unappealing—the stalwart powers of a finely honed blade will always prove itself effective.

 

… … …

 

It all happened so fast. _Too_ fast, if anyone were to ask Clair. The near instantaneous shift in atmosphere robbed her of the barbaric satisfaction of seeing her victims _know_ that they were completely fucked, but in an interesting trade-off she had succeeded in sowing confusion. For indeed not one of the deformed men or women had foreseen this, not even the aspiring priest who had his hardened groin perched directly on top of the would-be prey, and certainly not dog-face, who held the very hand that ended his life as well as those of his cohorts. No one could understand why their lamb was up and running, no one could fathom why the unblemished woman was on a killing spree, and no one could articulate the shape shifting instrument of their destruction.

 

From her position of submission to that of triumph, the transformation lasted no more than eight seconds, but the transfiguration of Astylvere lasted far less than that. Once Clair turned that little knob, the rifle came to pieces—screaming the sounds of grinding wheels and buzzing circuits—and rearranged itself into into another shape, all in the short span of a tenth of a second. The barrel telescoped inwards, the stock collapsed and flipped every which way to take on the visage of a bulky guard, and the seemingly decorative points fused and erected to become a keenly whetted blade. As if joining it’s mistress in the struggle, the weapon turned and thrashed with every shift of it’s minute parts, startling dog-face before the newly materialize saber cleanly sliced through his thigh. The jerking sent the gun’s handle—now repurposed as a hilt—swinging around to where Clair could grab it and launch the blade into a broad arch, first severing dog-face’s arm and gasping muzzle, then lopping off the priest’s still grinning head, and finally ending the metal rainbow with the bisection of the midget lich-like face. At the third second, Clair was already catapulting herself through the shower of blood, sparing the slaughtered halfling only a passing sneer as the two halves of his fear-frozen visage fell away from one another like the opening jaws of a flytrap. She tore Astylvere away from the midget’s ichorous cleft as she landed on her feet, grabbing the priest’s head by the wiry clumps of his hair and flung it into the crowd. What was more satisfying than watching the noggin spin through the air as a blood drenched comet was seeing them all shriek in astonishment and haul their bare asses in a frenzied run as the flying remains of their leader chased them like a hunting wraith. At the fifth second, the fat kid and the tall guy came charging at her, rotting teeth exposed to her through snarls betokening their inhuman thoughts. Being thinner and, therefore, swifter, the tall guy reacher Clair first and grabbed her by the neck, his stick-like limbs crooking in a way that was evocative of a mantis seizing a prey with murderous intent. Unfazed by his display she quickly ran him through the neck, instantaneously forgetting about him as she kicked his lanky body onto the ground. By the sixth second, the fat kid was, rather unsuccessfully, lumbering upon the alter, wearing the same nefarious grimace as their polar opposite. At the seventh second, Clair had thumbed Astylvere’s handy knob and switched the sword back into a rifle. At the eighth second she had vacantly blown the gelatinous brat into a steaming crimson paste like the spoiled lump of pudding they might as well have been. The splash of boiling blood the kid’s demise birthed whipped across Clair’s abdomen and face, but the heat on her flesh felt too much like a baptism, perfecting the sensation that she was born again.

 

Finally, there was silence. No drumming and no chanting. Only the tense silence of a nonplussed mass, waiting for a punishment that only Clair could speak of. Now standing high upon the altar, surrounded by a vermilion zone of bodies and bones, breast moving up and down in furious breathing, naked save for a warm layer of blood that slated her matted black locks and glistening white skin, and internally seething in such depths of pure wrath unlike anything she ever thought possible, she looked upon the assembly with disdain and dared them with her emerald eyes to continue their fight. Aside from the few who resigned themselves to cowering in the cave’s manifold corners with their cringing faces buried in their hands (or whatever appendages surrogated for hands) most reacted at length and sprinted towards the head of the room in a fevered herd, drooling, growling, and crawling over one another just to dig their claws into the dissenter.

 

“Alright.” Clair sighed, under-toned with a bitter chuckle. She wasted no time in putting them down and spared no warning, aside from the implied threat in her cradling her precious talisman. Preluded by little more than the curt clicking of Astylvere’s inner mechanisms and the thunderous strumming of energy building within the barrel, she discharged volley after volley after volley of burning bolts at the horde, screaming in glee. Between each brisk flash of amber gunfire she saw flailing bodies being sawed down without quarter; arms and legs swiftly torn from their torsos by hands of lightning, chests being stabbed with glowing knives too ephemeral to be caught, and heads detonating into rainstorms of blood that smothered the air above while cadavers hit the ground like hail. Between each banefully roaring note of the barrage she heard their terrified screaming, some begging their killer to stop, others begging for salvation from Cthulhu. They’ve since abandoned their vengeance and what few were left alive desperately scrambled out of the line of fire, only to end up exploding into shreds of flesh, bone, and blood the next second. What should have given her cause to cease her attack only heightened her sense of euphoria. She laughed out loud, mingling Astylvere’s own sputtering cackle with her own. And at the sights and sounds she was aroused. Her cunt tickled and cum ran down the insides of her thighs in slow braids. The scent of burning flesh buried her, graced her, and she gladly breathed it in as if it were the purest air a mortal could ask for.

 

When Clair was sure she has the horde thoroughly demoralized, she at last granted them a catharsis. She at once ceased and culminated her cannonade by sending a single shot through the figurative forehead of the crucified idol, their visceral god, Cthulhu. The laser hit it’s mark, rifting the thing’s head in a manner oddly evocative of a charging ship. The shot traveled onward until it shortly shattered against the reflective black wall. The flash of the exploding discharge using the glass as a means of enhancing itself was a spectacular sight, the finest icing on this jubilant moment. The fiery light engulfed the room, humbling the sniveling crowd into averting their eyes, turning over all colors and shadows, making the burning pieces of Cthulhu that rained down around her look like angels swimming in Hell, casting Clair’s tyrannical shadow across the floor. The jarred bulk of the idol fell from it’s cross in a blazing, smoldering heap—bones stained black and flesh torn into flying embers—the swirling fire assaulting Clair’s back with it’s heat. Strutting forth, she sneered, leering at her subjects through the smoke. They feared her, and for it she wanted nothing more than to bind them, blind them, and them her whores. Hurt them like they wanted to hurt her. Bury their faces in the realization that she was their conquer, the one who killed their god. She was their goddess.

 

Her self-absorption was cut down when the smell of cooked flesh reminded her of the mortal weakness that had driven her here in the first place: she was still hungry.

 

“Listen up!” She roared, holding Astylvere in the air to remind them she was still the decider. They made no objections, well enough. There were maybe two dozen of the savages left alive—perhaps more—all squatting at random places, ankle deep among the field of corpses. Some whimpered under their breath, some visibly cried, others stayed silent and kept their heads low, and one or two cradled the shattered body of a fellow in their arms, but regardless of how they were lamenting all eyes were fixed upon the woman with the laser rifle once she spoke. Where once they might have looked her down with lust for sex and blood, now their hazy gazes conveyed nothing less than regret and fear. Her hate heavy stare hopped from one set of stricken eyes to the next, even taking the time to make eye contact with the vacant irises of the corpses. Clair continued, “I know you have food here! And water, too! You will give me everything you have and let me leave in peace! If you don’t want to cooperate, then I promise the rest of you will die! One of you will guide me to your food storage and rest will stay wherever the fuck you are, and you will not move until I say you can! Is that understood?!”

 

For several seconds the lot simply continued their gawking, saying nothing. Clair was tempted to kill one more for the sake of soliciting a response until two among their ranks—the only two who weren’t an emotional wreck—offered hurried nods while maintaining eye contact with the woman. Clair waited to see what they planned on doing as the duo looked from one tear streaked face to another, deeply contemplating their bereaved comrades while occasionally letting their scrutiny deviate towards the carpet of mutilated bodies at their feet, apparently in silent wailing.

 

Clair wondered what their motivation was until the two spotted a fellow savage packed tightly against one of the darker corners with their back to the crowd and face clasped in their trembling hands. She didn’t have long to speculate on this person’s identity before the responders, growling obscenities at their cowering friend, grabbed them and dragged the hapless creature to the front of the stage with a speed that belied just how afraid they were. Though Clair almost chortled, she kept her features cold and flat as she watched the cowardly savage violently kick and scream for dear life in the clutches of their brother’s, sending up light sprays of blood with each terrified gesticulation.

 

When the “volunteer” was at last positioned before her, turned so they can meet the mistress eye to eye, Clair was rewarded a good look at him. Despite the petite frame and uncombed shock of long, white hair it was clear he was male, and quite an unimpressive one at that. Clair didn’t think of herself as very tall—she couldn’t have been much over four feet—but the boy was easily a full head shorter than her, maybe more. She figured he might have been just a kid, but that was immediately contradicted by the scraggly strands of hair tipping his chin, lip, chest, and crotch, in addition to the acne scars and fine lines that damaged his small, round face. She surmised the boy to be in his twenties, yet she was ready to believe he could have been twelve or fifty if told otherwise. Like everybody else, he was nude and laden in blood that, on him at least, looked like a coat of warrior’s body paint, slathered on to mock his scrawniness. He was also slashed in multiple places, with crimson cuts etched deeply into his ghostly white skin, namely along his arms, back, and an especially preeminent one across his forehead. Particularly startling, however, was that he was by far the most human looking of the throng, which was an actuality that had Clair taken aback (although she refused to let her surprise crease her scowling facade). But that didn’t mean the boy was without deformities; it was merely an assortment of details that, while distinctively inhuman, worked together to make him look like an exotic species rather than a radiation-blasted mockery of the human form. He wasn’t grotesque, just odd. His ears, for instance, tapered to dull points and seemed to flap up and down according to his mood. As he was clearly humbled and afraid, the triangular lobes pointed to the sides, and while he was panicking they laid flat against the flanks of his shaggy cranium. His sad eyes were also off in a way that, again, wasn’t too terrible to look at. They were huge and round, seemingly akin to a pair of wet windows that looked in on a pinkish aura betraying the boy’s poignant personality. His small, pouting mouth wasn’t the ravenous, snarling maw she would have expected from an almost human either. Even as he peeled back his lips in a nervous smile, revealing rows of small triangular teeth, it wasn’t the expression of an animal, but that of a youngster that was ugly but ultimately harmless. Truly, whoever this kid was was out of place, but the boy’s innocence gave Clair no cause to let her guard down.

 

Assuming she could simply snap his neck if Clair’s gut was wrong, Clair kept Astylvere leveled in the vague direction of the other survivors while opting to lock her eyes onto the boy, holding him hostage with her gaze. “Do you speak English?” She inquired in an even tone.

 

The boy nodded, offering “Y-yes. I d-do.” He put a trembling finger to his flat and pasty chest and bleated with a crooked, uneasy smile “Hi. I’m Jage.”

 

“Shut up!” Clair snapped, unsurprised that the boy—“Jage”, apparently—flinched and choked back a sob. “I don’t give a fuck what you’re name is! If you ever want to continue your hopeless dream of achieving manhood then you’re going to shut the fuck up, show me where you keep your food, and leave me the fuck alone. Afterwards, I’d don’t care if go and slash your fucking wrists or fuck your mother to death. Either way, I’m leaving here alive and well fed and forever relieved of you fucking animals! Am I clear?” 

 

Again, Jage shrank back, cringing. A submissive whisper was his only response before his back stiffened, silently awaiting his next orders while eyeing his softly fidgeting hands.

 

Clair’s clothes were right where the deceased captor’s had left them, thrown all across the floor, little bloodied islands of black leather and metal in a carnal red lake. She wanted to dress herself as quickly as possible, reclaim her dignity and move on, but she considered the risk in spending precious few seconds slipping on her garments—therefore having to unhand Astylvere for a short duration—instead of keeping vigilant against the people who have already proven themselves to harbor murderous desires. It was a slight gamble, but in actuality a slight gamble was what landed her here in the first place, and on top of that she was already sick of this place and wanted to leave as quickly as possible.

 

“Jage, pick up my clothes and lead the way.” Clair instructed sharply. Sure enough, he followed, carefully scooping up her coat, boots, socks, and chainmail and wadding them into an awkward bundle that he hugged against his chest with his thin, sliced arms. The boy dolefully studied the vestments as he worked, as if he were envious of the thick armor and warm fabrics, acutely aware that he was sorely lacking any of his own. Although he was diligent—finishing seconds later in time to usher Clair onward with a negligible jerk of his head—he did stop and dwell on the curious designs on the woman’s pauldrons, with his disproportionate eyes widening in recognition.

 


	10. Damage Done

The adrenaline began to makes it’s way out of her head, taking with it the inward veil that had prohibited her from considering anything other than vengeance and consumption. Thereafter, other thoughts began chugging towards other ends: comfort, leisure, silence, clothing, a whole glossary of things that in total remained the exact opposite of her current situation. She just wanted to leave. She wanted to stop fighting, but was well aware that wasn’t an option in her current standing. Thus Clair continued to hold the questionable human boy at gunpoint as the two shambled through a dark, constricted, and downward sloping fissure. She was prepared to kill one more person, if need be, but was somewhat more inclined to a cease fire if it meant obtaining that glossary of things that were not. The wreckage of her rush, however, was still littering her peripherals, leaving the chronic stain of confusion on her mind. She wanted to stop thinking. It would bring her comfort, leisure, silence, and maybe some clothing too if she fell into a deep enough stupor.

 

Though she was loath to accept it—and even more reluctant to confess to him—she had to trust Jage with her life at this point, because in this tight and pitch shrouded shaft he was the only one capable of seeing beyond the shadows, attributable to both an intrinsic familiarity of his own home and his cat-like nocturnal vision. With Jage able to observe his trail and his traveling companion as if it were by day, that left Clair at an incredible disadvantage. If he wished it, the boy could have deceived her, led her to a remote and inescapable finger of the underground network and left her there. He could just as easily overtake her on the spot, and Clair would only be aware of her demise the very second Jage’s teeth bit into her neck. The prospect of being slain in the phase of being cold, naked, and blind, in the dark depths of a hive she had walked into under her own poor judgment was equally terrifying and humiliating. In addition, she was in doubt of how long she could continue. She may have been equipped with unreal technology and armed with the vigilance of swelling paranoia, but the longer she continued to walk in her atrophied flesh the more feeble she became. Hunger had taken her vitality long before the people beneath the black shard ever seized the opportunity to take the engine it used to fuel.

 

Then again, maybe Jage was every bit as docile as those child-like eyes denoted. If so, Clair only had to worry about dropping dead of starvation in the middle of this agonizingly prolonged trail. But just in case, Clair made sure to assert her dominance at every chance she had under the hopes of daunting the pallid mole. This came easily enough as Jage made endless attempts at idle small talk. Most recently:

 

“So…what’s your name again?”

 

“You already asked me that.”

 

“Sorry. Just want to get to know you. That’s all.”

 

“I’ve above you, boy. You don’t deserve to know me.”

 

“Okay.”

 

And five minutes later…

 

“So how does your gun do that thingy. You know, that transforming thingy. It’s pretty cool.”

 

“Shut the fuck up, kid.”

 

“Sorry. Just curious.”

 

More than once Clair threatened Jage, either verbally with a sharp “I swear to the gods, I will kill you if you don’t stop asking questions” or implicitly by digging the business end of her rifle into the nape of his neck (or, at least anywhere on the boy’s body. The dark didn’t exactly allot her a very clear view of where she was aiming.) No matter what, though, the soft but resolute Jage refused to give up. He just kept on taking like a bored stranger on a park bench with another bored stranger. Perhaps it was only because he was just that dense, but Clair was convinced of the opposite. She knew Jage was well aware that she couldn’t just kill him, else she would be accompanied by a dead escort and not the faintest clue where in the under-Earth she was stranded, thus he felt free to taunt her with that dulcet voice of his. Once her hunger was sated she’ll silence him for good, but in the meantime vouchsafing the inhuman’s life was her only option.

 

Clamminess began to wrap around her the deeper they traveled, and airborne moisture gradually turned the dust covering the walls into a thin veil of mucus. The smell of fungus drifted with them and shallow puddles of biting water pruned her toes. The saturation made it apparent enough that Jage was leading them into a subterranean water reservoir, a likelihood that filled Clair’s vacant gut with both anticipation and trepidation. But that also betrayed the true depths into which she was plummeting. Believing she could have been well over five kilometers beneath the surface infected her and sundered whatever hope she had of seeing the stars again.

 

“Watch out.” The boy cautioned, his voice seeming to flutter from all directions. “The trail’s about to get pretty tight up ahead.”

 

“How tight?” Clair set a hand against the wall, noting how there was already virtually no space between the wet stone and her shoulders.

 

“Uh…do you remember what it was like when you were born?”

 

She didn’t, of course, but any mammal would could easily quests at the discomfort of being squeezed past a mother’s lips. Clair remained silent, accepting that if it were a harrowing task for such small man to push through this passage then it would be quite an adventure on it’s own for her to conquer.

 

True to Jage’s word, the walls began pinching inward with the only immediate warning being the strained grunts the boy emitted as he and the bundle of clothes he carried dove into the crack. The rasping of his oily skin and the leather-like fabric of her coat could be heard as they scrapped against the walls, but the splashing of Jage’s feet denoted that progress was still being made at an acceptable pace. Clair was taken aback when the time came for her to enter and she discovered, with more than enough indignation, that Jage’s analogy was justified. Through a space that was at most a foot and a half wide, so it felt, Clair shuffled sideways as the twin palms of damp stone pressed against her chest and back, innumerable edges raking her skin raw and pulling her buttocks and breast in the opposite direction as she tried to continue on. Periodically the microscopic fractures webbing the walls would snag her hair, making the struggle to rip it out an overly common ordeal. Thinking again about how this abyss could very well become her coffin, she realized there was an annoyingly poetic truth to the situation being compared to childbirth.

 

“How much farther?” Clair asked through a noticeably prominent knob that crammed itself in her face. She attempted to reposition Astylvere square between the boy’s shoulder blades to emphasize her threat, but the nimble creature had ventured just out of reach. But in all fairness, the linear hall wouldn’t have made shooting a challenge by any means, especially since neither of the party were free to move much. Clair felt the boy understood this as well.

 

“Uh…not much longer, I think. These tunnel’s, you know? They’re different every time ya walk them. One day they’re, like, all cool and short and all. And the next you’re totally chasing your own tail for weeks. It’s so crazy, you know, miss…what’s your name?”

 

Clair countered his warmness with “I told you not to ask me that again. I’m not in the mood for that shit.”

 

“Right, right. Sorry. I’ve got a pretty bad memory I guess. I mean, a lot of the fam has told me that before, but, you know, it’s not like I was so keen on believing them. Cuz, you know, who wants to be told their memory sucks? I’ve gotten used to it, though. Dudes say lots of hurtful things to me. But, yeah, it’s just life, I guess…”

 

 _This must have been some kind of joke,_ Clair thought bitterly as Jage rambled. She massacres the abominable horde and they get their revenge by trapping her with the most trying pest among them. That was it. That made sense.

 

Just as Clair was ready to say “fuck it” to this whole affair and pump a round through the back of the wretched boy’s head, Jage suddenly squeaked out a jubilant “Oh! Oh oh oh! Wait a minute, I see it! We’re almost there!”

 

“The food depot?” Clair asked, one half of her sharing the boy’s joy and the other half still considering putting him out of his misery.

 

“Yeah! See it there? The light?”

 

Clair spat a bewildered “What li…?” immediately before observing for herself exactly what Jage was speaking of. Some distance ahead, perhaps thirty or so meters, there was a lone smudge of color—off yellow or green, by the looks of it—blemishing the pitch veil. It was faint enough to be mistaken for a trick of the eye, but having both of them spot it left no room for doubt. Just as ready to quench her hunger as always, she spurred Jage onward with a few contemptuous incentives and a hard jab in the nape. Her coiled and faltering innards, eager for it’s long awaited nourishment, gave her legs one good kick of energy and she was rushing headlong with a blithe disregard for the ever groping walls.

 

Soon the way abruptly opened up into a irregularly shaped chamber that, while small, allowed Clair’s constricted limbs to inflate back into a more natural position. As were the puddled floors and sticky walls, the air here was still damp but noticeably less stuffy. She breathed deeply, taking in the stale cavern atmosphere, and relished the freedom her chest had in stretching the small difference the crevice forbade. The room was just large enough to be entirely lit by a single torch, which jutted out of the opposite wall at such a severely gnarled angle that Clair wondered if it was about to fall off it’s mount. To her right was a splintered wooden door of the same dirty brown shade as the rest of the cavern, held in place by two hinges—both little more than crumbling lumps of rust—and a complete cluster-fuck of padlocks and chain ties. Presumably, this was the threshold to the food depot she sought.

 

On the right was a blunt obstruction to the mineral monotony, showing through the bubbling rock formations like cleaved silver beneath a film of patina. Only this wasn’t silver, nor anything quite as glamorous, but the same glossy black material that seemed to seed this gods forsaken place.It was easy enough to deduce, but the fact hadn’t been able to make it through the mayhem, not until now. This wall, as well as the one in the altar chamber and probably countless others that likely reposed in this complex, were all the exposed facets of the buried half of the black shard, a fact that lent credence to the titanic piece of glass being a home for the pseudo-humans.

 

“Well, we’re here. Guess you probably figured that by now, though.” Jage chimed half enthusiastically whilst following Clair’s gaze as it panned from one side of the room to the other and back. She almost fired another slight before her descrying eyes caught the boy’s pallid face, a distressingly haunting sight that seemed new to the frazzled woman. His dainty lips were tightly pressed into one another in a faintly shaking smile and the huge disks of his exhausted eyes seemed to struggle in some way, as if he were fighting the impulse to look at his companion the cross eyed, believing the very act could cost him his life. His ears refused to keep still, instead vibrating nervously like the wings on a dying fairy. Though everything on the boy’s exterior betrayed his bottled terror—from the way his chest pumped in barely restrained hyperventilation to the way he fingered Clair’s wadded cloths—his tone was astonishingly chipper, if spliced with the faintest trace of anxiety. His smile looked to be the kind found only on the faces of abused wives in the presence of their violently ill tempered husbands while his childish small talk was just short of being inviting.

 

The boy was scared for his life, and, unless he was as cunning as he was pathetic, clearly wasn’t planning anything in line with treachery, so Clair decided to spare him her incentives. “Unlock the door.” She growled, lowering her weapon.

 

“Oh, sure. Do you want your things back, by the way? Looks like you don’t want to be in your birthday suit anymore.”

 

Clair didn’t acknowledge Jage’s observation nor his question, but pried the ball of clothing out of hands and left him to work his way through the chains and locks. He informed her “This might take a few minutes, miss. Whoever tied these things last really didn’t want anyone getting in.”, then he let his silence speak for him, only to have it give way seconds later to the sound of fumbling chain links and rattling wood.

 

Meanwhile, Clair began looking for a puddle ample enough to bathe in. The floor was wildly uneven, with dips and peaks galore corralling several small pools of crystalline water, ranging from being a little more than a sheen to bountiful wells half a foot in depth. The deepest and most alluring among them sprawled in the farthest corner (or, in this shapeless closet, what approximated as a corner) beneath the black wall. She intended to make good use of the mirror-like surface as she scrubbed away the fifth, but paused, riveted, upon meeting the creature that stood in lieu of a reflection. It was the first time in months she had seen her own image, and the very first time she had ever seen this almost alien body of hers unclothed. It was an illuminating experience, provoking and upsetting, as miraculous as a common animal discovering it’s own reflection and being awarded self awareness…

 

She looked away, glancing at Jage as he continued to struggle with the locks. Once again, she felt ridiculous. It was only a reflection. It was no miracle, nothing even remotely as fantastic as the things that haunted her on a daily basis. Nothing even worth mentioning in the stale narrative of her life. And yet, she was fearful of it somehow. _Madness_ , she thought. _These barbarians, their idiocy must have corrupted me. I’ve become as clueless as they are_.

 

She turned back to the midnight looking glass, scoffing at her own timidity, but when the time came for her eyes to lock with their deep green doppelgängers she was again seized by the nagging sensation that something was inexplicably _wrong_ with what she was seeing. Looking her nude but unglamorous form up and down, she felt ashamed. It took her awhile to figure that out, but that’s what it must have been. Shame. Over what?

 

There was the brown crust of blood chafing the most intimate parts of her body, vomit and dirt sticking to her feet, flakes of dried discharge in her pubes and on her thighs, fat purple bruises pounded into her stomach and face, pus infected cuts on her forehead, peeling burns on her arms and hands, red scrapes peppering her paleness, swollen lips, saliva on her chin, pink eyes staring jadedly, sweat pasting her hair to her shoulders, and the still hot iron of Astylvere dangling seductively in her claws. She felt detached, as if the thing in the obsidian shallows was a stranger, or worse yet, another malformed denizen positioning herself on the other side of the window to parody Clair’s humanity. Putting her hand to the glass, watching the reflection copy the moment, she teetered on the edge of that conviction and wanted to believe it was true. It would have been better than facing her callous, feral half; would have been better than learning she was no different than these dubious humans.

 

The sound of splashing water and the soft ringing of metal rendered her introspection null and forgotten. Suddenly oblivious to her reflection, the only thing she knew next was that Jage had unfasten a length of chain from the door and was proceeding to shove the rust-red iron serpent across the flooded floor and out of his away. Right before starting the fight with the next chain the boy turned and shot Clair with a grin wide enough to belie his tiny lips. “Yes!” He cheered, holding up a two fingered gesture that left the woman slightly more confused than she was seconds prior. “One chain down, three more to go! Get your forks ready!” Despite his enthusiasm, his voice still cracked with fear.

 

Instinct, for whatever reason, almost forced her to return the gesture, but she reined in the urge and moaned “How much longer ti—“ She rasped up a wet, grisly cough that left her throat sore, reminding her she was in dire need of water. She came close to stopping and slurping up the glistening pool around her feet, but recovered some of her dignity when she remembered she let her query go unfinished. “How much longer till that door is open?”

 

He forced a raspberry out of his lips, contemplating. “Maybe ten minutes? Give or take.”

 

“Good.” That would provide her enough time to make herself decent. She slapped handfuls of water across her body, scrubbing away at the layers hugging her skin, wringing out the filth in her hair, and soothing her many injuries with the mineral infused solution. Out of what must been a habit she would give Jage a sidelong glance every few seconds to make sure he wasn’t peeping. The irony in this wasn’t lost to her at all. But after flaunting her body before a terrified crowd it was nice to know her self consciousness wasn’t entirely gone.

 

The water was cold and provoked a few shivers and wave of goosebumps, but it still felt good, natural in fact. She felt free again, purged of today’s reminders, the literal and figurative weight of blood sloughed right off. The smell of raw gore that had hitherto followed her was noticeably undermined. She also found it easier to look at her reflection now that it’s likeness was less than that of a ghoul. Indeed, she even ventured into a staring contest with herself, internally chiding the duplicate for her absurdity.

 

Her heart skipped a beat when she noticed a large sickle shaped incision slashing across the concave canvas of bed stomach, almost as deep as the navel over which it hovered. She inhaled sharply in preparation for a scream, believing she had been so famished that her nerves were completely unable sense such a fatal injury. But the scream sank in her chest when it became clear that this wasn’t a fresh gouge, but something far older. It was just a scar, crisp, jagged, and pink around the edges, but ultimately nothing more severe than a mole.

 

It was boggling to think that she had gone so long without knowing of this mark, even when the fact was made believable considering she had never exposed her body, much less beheld it in a mirror. She was tracing the scar with the tip of her finger in fascination when she recalled the nightmare she had several days ago, something she would have forgotten had she not already penned it’s synopsis.

 

_I was impaled—strung up like a decaying scarecrow—upon an off-looking structure that consisted chiefly of crisscrossing stakes driven into the sand. The senselessly arranged spikes skewered me in several places—my right hand, left leg, neck, both shoulders—but the most painful was the large, splintered point that ran through my stomach, firmly fixing me to the beach like a needle holding down a bug. My entrails were like garlands woven around the spike, reeking of drying blood and shit. Somehow, though, I was alive, albeit barely._

 

She frantically examined her body and, as expected, found more scars that were startlingly similar if considerably less ugly. There was one on her left leg, one on her right palm, another covering the tender side of her neck, and two more right in the spaces between her shoulders and breast; all corresponding to the gashes received in her dream. Somewhere in the back of her mind, her intuition told her this wasn’t a coincidence, leaving her to beg the question…

 

Chains and wooden planks rattled again, briefly filling the room with it’s harsh cacophony. The door now hung ajar, leaning from only a splintered hinge. At it’s base laid the heap of chains, freshly collapsed. Jage stood aside, and with a theatrical sweep of his arm hooted “Bon appétit!” without providing much context.

 

From here, the rest of the day felt like a single movement, lethargically executed but hazy enough to be forgotten the following morning, especially in the shadows of her near execution and subsequent retaliation; a motion driven by the need to get as far away from here as possible and leave this whole chapter behind. Clair had to forget about the human race or forever remember the abominable hive they’ve become, but either way the sense of betrayal they inflicted upon her was something she had to tow to the grave. Outwardly they changed, but inside they must have still been humans to some degree, however deranged their motives and beliefs were. To Clair that warranted nothing but resentment, for only demons are expected to kill without purpose, not people and certainly not those that could have found a friend in the haggard woman.

 

With all those long held hopes for finding solace in fellowship all but broken, it was easy to walk away without regret.

 

She slipped her polished frame into her outfit—the safety of scored armor hugging her shoulders and waist—and stormed into the depot without saying a word to the dismayed Jage. The finer details of the place went over her head, but her nose received the pungent smell of… _something_. Something that could feasibly pass as sustenance. There were baskets and shelves galore crammed with foot long nuggets of green fluff that vaguely resembled bread. A reflexive taste test said otherwise, but the somewhat creamy texture on her tongue and the heaviness in her stomach was enough to satisfy her.There was also an abundance of atypical fruit—or oversized nuts, rather—some familiar but most new to her. These too she had looted and unceremoniously stuffed them alongside the bread into a spacious leather purse which Jage was kind enough to provide. The last thing on her checklist was a means of hydration, and that was easily provided by a trough fed with water that dripped at a rate of two drops per five minutes from a cluster of stalagmites hanging above. Unlike the food, the strangeness of which was enough to put her on edge, the water was both unblemished and conventional, showing not a single trace of filth through it’s perfectly transparent depths. Yearning to soon taste the liquid crystal, she was quick to fill her six canteens (another gift courtesy of Jage) to the brim and bail with her treasure.

 

As obediently as he had going to the depot, Jage guided Clair away and to the exit, a journey that was much longer than the previous but considerably less vexing, as the boy had remained oddly quiet. She was beginning to think he had finally found a clue and kept his pointless chatter unuttered, but as fate had it, he had more to say.

 

… … …

 

“Hey, can…is it alright if I ask you something?” By the time Jage thought to voice his wish the duo were already egressing the final few meters of the complex’s main corridor. With the stygian darkness behind them, the brightly illuminated portal stood lonely ahead, admitting a colorful view of the outside world. There they were, the same field of ramshackle shacks and withered woods from long ago, dismal and still beneath the weight of the setting stars. Now this spectacle was truly a remedy for the night’s adventure; the silence, the dry air, the lack of living things, in more ways than one it was environment that permitted enough space to breath and she couldn’t have been more relieved to return to it, alive and still relatively clean.

 

The boy’s question was heard, but only in the barest sense. There was a noise, and Clair was sure it came from Jage, but as far as she was concerned it was none of her business, just as hers was was none of his. Whatever it was he said, she didn’t care and dismissed it with a masculine grunt.

 

She stood at the threshold for a few seconds longer, squinting past the glare of starlight and the inapposite whites of the henge that stood between her and the outside world, mulling over which direction she aught to go before deciding it didn’t really matter. She started off at a brisk pace and didn’t get very far before noticing the sound of an extra pair of feet echoing her own footsteps. Dismayed, she realized Jage was following her.

 

She tightened the strap on her new bag, feeling it necessary to make it more secure. “Go home.” She groaned, not bothering to stop or even scowl at the bloody albino.

 

He stopped, of course, but reconfigured his pestering with “But I still have a question to ask!”

 

“No! Go home!” Clair barked, still walking, still distancing herself.

 

Before crossing over from the wound to the living flesh of the forest, she cast one last half-glance over her shoulder at the black shard and the desolation at it’s base. She could see the pale splotch that was Jage, still standing a great distance away at the gate, a mote of white between the toes of an obsidian colossus. She was tempted to stare the kid down until he slumped back inside but was deterred when she thought she saw the boy waving. With a scoff, she squeezed herself through the shrubs and prayed she’d never have to return to this place.

 

At first it seemed that that was that, the boy crawling back to what was left of his kin and Clair taking to the lonely road once more. She thought for just the briefest of hours her dealings with the people beneath the black shard was over…

 

… … …

 

Dawn fell heavy over the Earth when the violet sun slipped beneath the skyline and a dense serpentine shadow glided sideways across the stellar dome in it’s wake. _Odd_ , thought Clair. Even during the stasis of night the other stars should have been scorching the world with their cold flames, yet there was a total absence of color. A great triple-helix ring, so it would seem, arched from the dusky horizon to which she marched all the way to the stiff frontier of trees behind her, it’s great black mass like the body of a sky goddess shielding the planet from the Gestalt, substituting the cosmos’s firmament with the uniformed sparkles that adorned the arch’s body. In spite of it’s grandeur, however, patches of the star’s colors still shone past the exposed flanks of the ring as it silently passed with the smooth and mechanical ease of a gyroscopic frame, thus dissolving—or at least undermining— the shadow it cast.

 

As if a result of the ring’s displacement of the atmosphere, a breeze swept through with an uncanny steadiness that seemed on par with the movement of the sky. Validated by it’s duration—a solid forty minutes, minimum—the draft seemed reluctant to dispel, making what should have been periodic bursts of gelidity an unyielding broadside of razor-cold air. While she was traveling in the forest the breeze had gone unfelt behind the company of trunks and under a roof of rustling foliage, but now that the woods have tapered to a paltry scattering of oaks in an expanse of dust, Clair was left venerable to both the biting wind and the charging clouds of ash it weaponized. It was as if a vast titan fleshed in the very essence of the air itself was casually striding through and she was unfortunate enough to be caught between it’s many legs.

 

The upside to the situation was that, while chilly, her life or health was in no real danger. She was clothed and fed, and so far her only major concern was keeping the wind whipped strands of hair out of her eyes. That is, if the floating stones posed no threat.

 

Yes, floating stones. Only a day ago she had to save herself from being kissed to death by a crawling rock and now the memory has left her with a fear of other rocks doing unnatural things. And now she finds herself in a field of pebbles and boulders defying gravity, all statically suspected at a perfectly unanimous elevation of about twelve meters; just high enough that, if one of the rocks suddenly decided to drop back to it’s place of birth, the fall would be enough to shatter her head like a glass ornament. Ergo her winding stroll, trying to avoid being under one of these bird-boulders. In her efforts to outsmart her levitating foes, she found herself regularly looking to the sky, additionally lingering on the sky arch and wondering if that and the rocks had anything to do with each other.

 

Soon the trees disappeared entirely, leaving her seemingly alone between the wind swept earth and what soon grew into an almost complete ceiling of cobblestone, making her swerving footpath ridiculously redundant. There were openings between the stones, but usually they were no wider than the width of her finger and only scarcely did they ever permit a view more spectacular than a thin sliver of a star. Though thin, light was able to leak through these cracks and paint a frail web of iridescence across the vast ground, which in conjunction with the all encompassing canopy and the claustrophobic dread it rained gave Clair the uneasy impression that she was floating underwater. Fortunately the feeling was grounded, not by common sense, but by the weight the canteens and the bag of fruit and bread added to her gait. Though heavy the stash was by no means a burden, and in fact helped steady her strut. Before she only had Astylvere, an eleven pound bulk of machinery that stained her center of gravity towards her right hip; now she had an extra load hanging from the opposite side to shift her balance a little closer to where it should be. Though not fully eleven pounds (and, of course, destined to lighten as she pecked at her rations) it was still enough to even things out.

 

Suddenly tired of staggering under her tight vault, she leveled Astylvere at one of the boulders—a steel colored lump that, like most of it’s companions, was flat on the bottom and shaped like a twisted lava sculpture on top—and fired a single round. The rock burst into a orb of sand and fire with the sound of an avalanche, and very quickly expanded towards Clair. She yelped in surprise, shielding her face with the rifle’s bulk just in time to avoid being blinded by a wave of hot vapor and innumerable particles. Looking through the granular haze she discerned the spill of starlight through the newly opened hole and a heap of smoking detritus thrown across the ground.

 

She chuckled to herself, not fully grasping that her victory was, in actuality, a very insignificant one. Not even twenty seconds hence, the bits of rocks and dust started regathering, leaping off the ground, zipping through the air, and even dislodging from Clair’s own coat, to eventually find their place in the whole from which they were blasted. Just like that time seemed to have instantly reversed and where there was once nothing there was an unscathed piece of stone, floating as if nothing had happened.

 

Feeling deflated, the bewildered woman gawked at her cancelled efforts, eyes wide and jaw hanging, trying to fathom what just happened. To say the least, she was dangerously close to the tipping point after all of the week’s weirdness. She mindlessly roared a ferocious “Ugh! I hate this fucking planet!” as she threw her rifle to the ground. Listening to her prized talisman strike the earth with a sharp _thunk_ restored some of her senses, just enough to understand this tiny battle wasn’t worth winning. Regardless she drowned her failure with a quick swig out of a canteen, feeling a little better once her tongue was cold and wet.

 

She sighed deeply, looking down at the strings of light that seemed to hold her gun to the ground, sadly wondering when she was going to arm herself again. It was during the subsequent spell of silence that she heard the giggling. She perked up, doing a double take over her shoulder, half expecting to see a whispering clown behind her. Her narrowed eyes snapped to the container in her hand as she entertained the idea that she must have misinterpreted the sound of the water splashing inside. But, no. This sound was distant, delicate. It wouldn’t have been the first time she imagined something laughing at her, but this time it felt undoubtedly solid, and not something her impish self-conscious would titter. Like a gnat buzzing just between her eyes, wings barely grazing the bridge of her nose, the sensation was allusive, but there nonetheless.

 

Knowing that someone was watching her, she picked up Astylvere and readied it for her defense. She stilled her breath and listened for anything else of out of the ordinary, be it the scrapping of heels or the soft creaking of fabric. She slowly turned in place, carefully observing each radii of her surroundings, but once she had completed the full three-sixty four times over she saw that there was not a single entity to be found, nothing but rocks, multicolored distortions, air, and more rocks.

 

She reconsidered the possibility that she was mistaking, but upon looking slightly upwards she started to understand. The levitating rocks were like an entirely different floor on their own, one she was completely helpless to see simply because she was beneath it, but whoever wished to watch without being watched only had to walk atop the stones and peer in through the copious fissures. All along they could have tracked her, prepared for whatever they wished without making her any the wiser, but their game undone by only the most innocuous goof.

 

All the stones seemed to float in perfect stillness, in absolute spite of the wind. All of them except for one, ensconced in a little spot just far away enough that the slightest difference in distance would have meant she’d never notice it. It bobbed up and down slowly as if being rocked by an unseen hand, but each time it did a glint of white peeked through on the normally exposed sides, only to wane out of visibility again. Clair thought it was just an abnormally bright stratum until the glance moved to one side and the stone’s movement seemed to flinch in response. A hand.

 

She aligned the rifle’s scope to the rock, aiming to shatter it and whatever was hiding on top.

 

Though she wanted to proceed on her way she found the prospect of meeting her stalker alive oddly alluring, if nothing else than for the sake of assuring it’s death with her own eyes. She shifted the line of her rifle gently to the left and fired on the stone at the side of the one that cradled the stalker. It exploded into dust and fire, violently capsizing the surrounding rocks with angry shockwaves, including that which was her true target. Through the smoke she could see a shape tumbling off the toppling vessel and plummeting to the ground. It’s flailing form was obscured in the chaos, but the voice within the shrill screaming betrayed it’s identity well enough.

 

Jage.

 

“You again?!” Clair flamed, blood boiling beneath her cheeks. “I thought I told you to stay away from me!” She stormed towards the boy sprawled painfully atop the debris, the sound of her boots beating the ground echoing her rage. She switched Astylvere to sword mode and the thin ringing that ensued from the disclosed blade preceded the blasted stone’s reconstruction in a way that made it hard to believe the gravity-defying pebbles weren’t fleeing in terror of her approach.

 

Half on his own will and half on the will of the rubble forcing it’s way from beneath his back, Jage quickly sprang up to a sitting position, staring bug-eyed at Clair. He had changed quite a bit since she had last seen him, still being the same white runt from before but made, admittedly, more approachable by being freshly cleaned and clothed. Instead of blood and sweat, he was swathed in a piteous outfit consisting entirely of ragged bandages binding his feet, chest, and neck, with the sole exception being his legs which were covered in a pair of gray cotton pants. Additionally, the white curls framing his spotted face were now tied into a fluffy ponytail that sat high on the back of his head, revealing the groomed slash running across his forehead.

 

He seemed to instantly sober once those pink puppy eyes caught sight of Clair’s blade. He screamed a heartbreaking (to anyone other than Clair at least) sound that really shouldn’t have come from the throat of an adult and started scooting his ass backwards across the ground in what was probably his best attempt at an escape. He was about to make his plea but before he could Clair kicked him into his back again, rooting her foot firmly into his belly, knocking the breath and a few beads of spittle out of him, and putting the gleaming tip of her blade into the folds of his scarf, just above the tender spot between his throat and breastbone.

 

“Uh…uh, hi!” He smiled, his stiff features making it clear he was fighting to keep his teeth from clattering. “I’m Jage. What’s you’re name?” He extending a hand, falsely assuming Clair was going to shake it.

 

Swatting the boy’s paw out of sight, she stated “You were following me.”

 

“Uh, yeah. I…guess I was. Sorry about that.” His eyes and fingers started fidgeting nervously. “I can imagine that might have seemed a little shifty…of me…to do that. Yeah.” Then he became noticeably more confident, going so far as to make eye contact. “But I had good reason, I swear!”

 

“Which is…?”

 

“I wanted to ask you a question, you know like, from before, but you never answered me. Which is okay! I understand my fam didn’t exactly make the greatest first impression back there, what with you almost raping you…” He let out a sincere laugh, as if this was actually funny. “…and sacrificing you to Cthulhu and all. Hopefully it’s water under the bridge, to be honest. I for one am willing to move on and be friends, and maybe you…”

 

“What the fuck do you want!?” Clair urged.

 

Jage caught his breath during the pause, gazing up at Clair with childlike admiration smoothed over his features. “Are you really one of _them_?”

 

“One of who?” The impatient woman demanded, pressing her foot deeper into the gel of his belly. He groaned painfully through clenched teeth, his whole body curling around her boot as if being forced down the feeding end of a hopper. “I’m not playing this game with you, boy.

 

“The an…se…nt…” He gasped, a rasping appeal for release between each syllable. Frowning, Clair unapologetically removed her foot and slipped Astylvere in it’s sheath under the same breath. Jage, muttering a humbled “Thank you”, rose to a sitting position with some difficulty, wincing once he saw the footprint stamped over his exposed navel. “The…the ancient humans.” He finally exhaled.

 

“Elaborate.” Clair said.

 

Nodding, he continued, with a hint of reverence in his voice. “The people that lived on Earth before the assimilation, that raised empires and travelled through the stars before perishing in the holocaust. I don’t know what they called themselves, if anything, but I know their mark. That one.” He pointed at Clair and for a moment the perplexed woman thought she was supposed to the boy’s “mark” until she noticed he wasn’t pointing directly at her but at her right shoulder, more specifically the cup of steel that covered it and the vermilion insignia adorning that. As she suddenly recollected all the hours spent mulling over the symbol’s meaning, her eye traced the V-shaped contours, roved across the horizontal trio of intersecting lines, and finally drilled into the center of the little halo that surmounted the whole figure. At the behest of her permissive gaze the boy continued with renewed vigor. “You’re not like us. For the lack of a better word, you’re perfect, you’re untainted, a paragon of shape. No extra limbs, no discoloring, you’re a human being at it’s purest. There hasn’t been one on this planet for thousands of years, miss. They’re all supposed to be extinct, but you! You’re still alive! You’re one of them aren’t you? A descendant maybe?” The boy smiled in anticipation, rushing to his feet. His height made it all but impossible for him meet her at eye level, but sure enough he suddenly carried himself as if he could.

 

With a halfhearted shrug, Clair said“I suppose you can say that. Sure.” And after a second’s thought she added “but that’s none of your concern, kid.”

 

His expression melted in an instant. “But…”

 

“No.” Clair stressed, taking a firm step forward. “After what happened, I want nothing to do with you, okay? I made that explicit already, so if you have an issue with it I’d be happy to talk things through the Cimmerian way.” She patted Astylvere’s weather beaten housing. ”Otherwise, we’re done here. I’m only going to tell you once: go home. Don’t look for me, don’t even think about me. Goodbye.” She turned and started off but before she could take her third step Jage had rounded around her and blocked her path.

 

“Don’t you understand how important you are? You’re an omen, miss! You’re existence alone is an impossibility that could finally put a crease in the Aristocracy’s dominion. Please, I need you! Let me come with you!” Jage’s razor-toothed smile, though pleasantly buoyant in appearance, hinted at the boy’s careening hopes. His longings were no doubt balancing on the withered fence at the edge of a bottomless ravine, but regardless of what Clair was intending to say those hopes were going fall. Whatever madness made Jage believe she had anything to do with “the Aristocracy” was clearly his own, and not something she wanted to end up ensnared in.

 

“That makes one of us.” Clair growled, grabbing Jage by his ponytail and casually tossing him out of her way. He landed flat on his ass, drawling a strident “Oooowwwww.”

 

Clair hastened her pace, briefly considering breaking into a run in hopes of leaving the pathetic kid behind, but once again she was made the fool because in no time at all Jage was in front of the galled woman, this time bringing the audacity to grab her by the collar and lift his tiny face so close to Clair’s that she could smell the germs in his breath. For one shocking moment she thought he was going to threaten her—an almost respectable act that would have earned the boy a proper burial once she was done killing him—but Clair’s surprise faded upon seeing the tears draining one by one from the sparkling pools of his eyes. The web-like light projections happening to run across his cheeks like cracks reinforced the fact that he was close to breaking.

 

“Please!” He begged, his tightening hands unintentionally giving everything above Clair’s neck a slight jerk. “You don’t understand! I don’t want to go home! It’s not safe there!”

 

With an ancillary hiss slipping out of her grimace, Clair narrowed her eyes at Jage and told him in a sharp whisper “Jage, listen to me. Right now I want you to shut your fucking mouth and realize that you aught to be grateful for two things from this point onward. The first, I’m letting you keep your hands.” She briefly cast her homicidal gaze downward. The boy followed, looking at his white fingers around the brim of her coat and reflexively pulling away. He gave the other an apologetic smile before shrinking back, hugging his hands to his chest as if taking Clair’s advice to heart. She continued, “Second, you have a home. You may not like it, but you have more right now than I do and more than I likely ever will. You have a place to sleep. You have a niche to occupy. You have sanctuary. You have a god to depend on. And most importantly, you have a community. Sure, your batshit brothers and sisters back there may be a few apples short of a bushel—putting it lightly—while following a moral compass to match, but if you’re apparently well enough to trail a complete stranger for over fifteen kilometers, while skipping across a flying pathway…” She pointed at the ever looming canopy. “…then, evidently, your horde is more reliable that the things that lurk out here!” She spread her arms, indicating the world beyond the canopy. “I don’t know what all goes on in those catacombs of yours—and I really don’t feel like asking—but if it’s one thing I know you have it’s day-to-day _certainty_. You sleep, eat, and pray to Kut-loo-whatever-it’s-called, and then you repeat the whole fucking thing until someone finally decides to kill you! Furthermore, you know what you are! You’re a goddam savage worshiping a shard of glass. You’re essentially just a maggot squirming around in the rotten rinds of this planet. But you know what? That’s life, isn’t it!? You have your own fucking link in the never ending chain of life; you have a role to play, and undoubtedly you’re aware of that, just as you always have been. Me? You want to know about me? All my life’s experiences are confined to the last three months. Only three months to learn how shit works on this planet! I’ve got no home, no parents, no relatives. Not a single clue when I was born, where I was born, WHY I was born! I’m fucking confused, Jage! This whole goddam journey I’m on has no destination. It’s just me wondering around in someone else’s house with no ‘how’s’ of ‘why’s’ or anything. I don’t even know my real name! I know nothing about myself aside from the fact that I’m alive and that I’m going to die, and I spend half my time dreading the idea that either of those things are false! My entire life is a cruel-ass prank while yours is nothing more crippling than a generic, plotless story! So let me hear it again: you have it bad! Of course you do! You’re afraid for your meaningless life, so you just want to take that fear somewhere else and feel meaningless in a place where your step-dad isn’t ramming you during church. So why not just leave behind everything and pester me along on this dead-end road, huh? You’re fucking mongrel octopus-dick-sucking quote-unquote ‘family’ almost killed me back there, but luckily for me that was the _easiest_ trial I’ve faced so far! I have seen horrors beyond imagining, Jage, Shit I didn’t even know could exist. The only thing that makes your people even remotely scary in light of that is the fact that you and I are supposed to be members of the same species. _That’s_ unsettling. _That_ makes me sick. I’m going to die, Jage, and if you come with me you’ll die too. That is a mother-fucking _fact_. And if the Old Ones won’t kill you first, then _I_ will! Stay _away_ from me! I don’t need you and in spite of all your fascinations about me you don’t need me either. I’m worthless, you’re worthless. End of story! Good. Bye!” And with a final grunt of disdain—and a fair amount of relief—she stormed away, leaving Jage speechless and with his little shark maw hanging open.

 

But, as fate has it, that wasn’t the end. Not at all.

 

“Are you really only three months old?” Jage openly contemplated, scratching the peach fuzz on the side of his chin. The stains of tears were still on his cheeks, but his melancholy seemed to have eroded in the wake of confusion.

 

Common sense said that Clair should have kept walking and left the boy to his ignorance, but the urge to berate him a little more was too strong. She spun around on her heels and shouted “That’s what you decided to hear?! How old I am?!”

 

“Hey, hey! Calm down!” Jage reeled, defensively showing his palms. “I get it. You’re scared, on the defensive. I guess I wouldn’t know. I didn’t see that you were, I don’t know? Lost? What happened, exactly? Where are you going?”

 

“You’re right: I am lost. But even if I weren’t, the last thing I need is to drag around some dead weight.”

 

“I know, but listen. Hear me out. I can help you.”

 

“After all that self-righteous shit about ditching your family, you decide to drop that now?” Clair groaned, crossing her arms.

 

“That’s the thing, I didn’t know I could have been of any help minutes ago. Honestly, I thought you were some kind of, uh, like time traveling warrior or a member of an ancient guild of rebels waiting to liberate all human life. You know like those investigator guys…”

 

“Well, you’re optimistic.”

 

“Yeah, I know. Total let down. Anyways, I know you’re an ancient one because of that symbol, right? Well, I’ve seen that symbol before in a place I used to visit when I was a kid. I called it the Library..”

 

Her posture relaxed, and her face beamed with interest. “I’m listening.”

 

“I don’t know how old the place is, but I’m almost certain neither the Aristocracy nor the Old Ones created it. In fact, judging by the condition, the Library has been abandoned for, like, a long time. To me the only conclusion left is that it was left behind by the last human empire, the fabled San-San.”

 

“San-San?”

 

“I don’t know much about them. But I know they were the top dawgs of human accomplishment. Or at least they were before…” He dragged his index finger across his throat while comically sticking his tongue out of his cocked head. “I can’t read any of the books in the Library myself—it’s all written in the lost tongues—but…you know when you come across something human and you can just feel it? Something so insultingly simple but at the same time something that can only be put together by the ingenuity a true-blue man?”

 

She did know. Jage was speaking of that same intuition that led her to the black shard; the natural ability to see—and smell and hear and taste—a tiny human presence in a vast picture that’s been warped by inhuman hands. Clair wasn’t even close to entrusting Jage with her life, and yet, assuming he wasn’t bluffing (which he probably was), she was willing to put her faith the boy’s judgement. What choice did she have, anyhow? A Library: a house of knowledge, a time capsule to speak on behalf of the very era she had been chasing. Later on she would kick herself in the ass for refusing what could be her last chance to find the answers that could steer her away from the dead end and into a world bigger than her own.

 

“I know where the Library is. It’s not very far from here, actually. I can take you there, miss.” Jage softly offered. He held out his hand to her and kept it between them until she decided to break or make their partnership.

 

Clair pensively eyed his white palm. From there she gazed into his face, hunting for any trace of deception just as she had done with Nyarlathotep. His eyes were as absurdly pink as hers were green; wide, gay, and like beacons strengthened with cheerfulness, the infection of malice Nowhere to be seen. _Now is the time,_ Clair thought, gut feeling heavy. _You’re my only hope._

 

She grabbed Jage’s paw as firmly as she could and gave it one conclusive shake. “Lead the way, Jage.”

 

“So I can come with you?” He gushed.

 

Clair scowled. “For now. You’ll show me the Library, but what happens after that depends entirely on how useful you decide to make yourself. Remember: it’s dangerous out there. The last thing I need is a liability.”

 

“Whoo!” Jage popped up and down on his toes, laughing, and feverishly clapping. Applause, innocent laughter. These are sounds she had never heard coming from anyone else before. It scared her, but also brought a faint smile to the corner of her lips. “Yes yes yes yes yes yes yes YEEEEEEESSSS!!! Thank you so so so much! I promise I won’t let you down miss…” Suddenly a vacant pout puckered his face. “Wait, you said you don’t remember your name?”

 

Sighing, Clair rubbed her forehead. “Not really. It’s…it’s pretty complicated, alright?”

 

“Can I call you Hatewraith then?”

 

“Um…what?”

 

“Hatewraith! You know, a really badass ghost woman. And you’re, like, wearing all black so it makes sense.”

 

“No. Please don’t call me that.”

 

“Oh. Then what you do I call you?” He shrugged, tapping a finger against his little lips.

 

“Clair. Okay? Just Clair.”

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
